


One and One

by NeonPistachio



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Battle of Five Armies - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Canon-Typical Violence, Dwarf Culture & Customs, Elf Culture & Customs, F/M, Fairy Tale Retellings, M/M, Mutual Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-17
Updated: 2019-03-17
Packaged: 2019-11-19 09:21:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 37,822
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18133901
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NeonPistachio/pseuds/NeonPistachio
Summary: Lord of the Rings/Snow White and the Seven Dwarves mashup.Several years post TBOFA, Orcs are attacking Mirkwood. Forced to flee for their lives, Tauriel and Legolas meet a group of dwarves and seek refuge. But their pursuers are still after them...





	1. Tauriel and the Seven Dwarves

**Author's Note:**

> I guess this counts as book verse with added Tauriel, seeing as I’ve never seen the films, but I also guess it’s so far from Tolkien it doesn’t really matter. 
> 
> Due to not having seen the films, if Tauriel and Kíli, well, any of the characters seem ooc, blame it on that.

The trees of the Greenwood are silent. Tauriel is used to their whispers sounding at the edge of her hearing wherever she goes, but since the orcs began their regular forays into the forest the trees have become dormant, withdrawing into themselves in anticipation of the orcish axes. No matter how hard the elves try, the trees will not wake until the threat has passed. 

Beside her, Legolas seems equally ill at ease from the lack of song. They have rarely spoken of their sorrow at the trees’ silence, but each knows the other grieves for the lack of song in the wood. This is part of the unspoken reason they two are abroad, roaming the forest as a scouting party looking for any straggling orcs from the latest incursion, only two days past. 

Bows in hand, quivers full, they search for orcish footprints. In the past the orcs have not concealed their movements, breeching only the edges of the wood to wreak havoc and destruction before retreating once more. In the last few months, things have changed. Now bands of orcs penetrate deep into the forest, leaving little mark until they come upon any unwary creature or elf, where upon their bloody work leaves little standing. 

Thranduil has forbidden scouting parties to go out with fewer than twenty elves, but neither Tauriel nor Legolas heed him. For her part, though she is a captain of the guard when not at war Tauriel prefers to hunt with only one or two companions, finding it easier to track and evade if there are fewer elves to get in her way. Legolas, she knows, is happy solo or with a group, but he would not ask any other to defy their king and accompany them. For the area they are in has also been forbidden to them. Dol Guldur, Amon Lanc that was, is the home of Saruman, and the wizard’s agreement with King Thranduil allows Saruman to work and study there without interference. Few elves would journey near there anyway but since Saruman took up occupancy to deepen his understanding of the one enemy, the area has been undisturbed as per Thranduil and Saruman’s agreement. 

But this is where the orc tracks lead, and so this is where they follow. 

A rustle to her left grabs Tauriel’s attention, but she ignores it after only a brief glance, catching sight of the black squirrel among the leaves. She sighs. If there are creatures daring to stir then there can be no orcs near.

Legolas glances over. ‘We shall catch them, even if we have to pursue them to the gates of Dol Guldur itself.’

Tauriel nods. ‘We will catch them, and we will learn from them where they come from and on what errand they enter the Greenwood, and then we will take the fight to their foul holes and leave them with a greater fear of elves than they have so far shown.’

Now it is Legolas’s turn to sigh. ‘Would that my father would allow that. Alas, I fear that he would sit in his halls and wait for the last elf and tree to fall before taking the fight to the orcs.’

Tauriel tightens her lips, not wanting to acknowledge the truth of Legolas’s words but unable to deny it at the same time. 

‘Come, let us run.’ She takes off before her words are finished, sprinting ahead of Legolas, winding through the trees, eyes on the faint orc footprints. Legolas catches up swiftly and the two of them run on in companionable silence, ever alert for the slightest sound that would betray their enemy.

 

*

 

As night begins to fall over the wood, the tracks they follow start to grow more distinct. Tauriel thinks the orcs do not fear pursuit from elves this far from the elven heart of the Greenwood. She finds it strange though, that they would venture so close to Dol Guldur. It has been a long time since it was the home of evil power and now that Saruman the White holds it there can be no love for orc-kind found there. 

She and Legolas pause as the ground begins to rise, the spaces between the trees growing wider. Keeping hidden from view, they skirt the base of the hill. The tracks here are confused, as though many bands of orcs have converged.

‘Have they overcome Saruman and made their base here?’ Legolas’s hushed question echoes Tauriel's thoughts. They share an apprehensive glance. If orcs have already done away with such a great wizard, here in the once seat of the one enemy’s power, there can be no doubt as to their intentions. 

‘We must learn what has happened.’ Tauriel’s voice is certain, though the idea of going up against a full horde of orcs is more than a little daunting with just two of them. But the more information they can bring back with them as to their enemy’s standing, the better. Surely, surely, she thinks, the king will have to make a move against the orcs now. 

Legolas agrees, and they begin to climb the hill towards the walls above them, flitting from cover to cover, remaining as hidden as they can on such exposed ground.

Reaching the walls unseen, Tauriel begins to climb the stony face. Legolas remains at the bottom to guard her escape; though he is swifter at moving from tree to tree, Tauriel is better at climbing rocks. She reaches the steps at the top of the wall, keeping to shadows as she makes her way along in the hopes of finding some vantage point from which to see into the keep below.

The stairs open out on to a walkway, open to the sky and balustraded by a low wall with arched openings above. From the openings Tauriel can look down on to a courtyard below. There are orcs scattered about it, going about their foul business, paying no special attention to any one who might be called a leader. There are animal carcases slung here and there, many with their entrails spilling out and flies buzzing around. Tauriel is very glad that the stench does not reach her up here. 

She keeps back, watching the comings and goings. There can be no doubt that the orcs have set up base here, but it remains to see how many there may be and whether they have Saruman captive somewhere or whether they have killed him outright. 

As she watches, a stir begins in one corner of the courtyard and an orc strides into view. Larger than the rest, the sight of him makes Tauriel struggle to hold back a hiss of rage. She recognises this orc; she saw him in the forest two days ago, when the orcs came the closest to the mountains they have yet ventured. What is more, she recognises the sword in his hand and the braid of hair tied to his helm. The sword she herself fought with her knives, driving the orc back and sending him fleeing with slashes across his face. The braid she recognises as that of Cwilon, a young elf under her command, killed in the battle. Her hands itch for bow and arrow, to take down the orc before he knows what has happened. But she cannot, it is not safe, there are too many and her people are many miles away.

The orc stands in the centre of the courtyard and bellows out words in an incomprehensible tongue. There is much scurrying in response, some orcs speeding away and others entering. The numbers grow, and she has to quickly stifle a gasp as what she previously took to be more animal carcases stand and move, revealing themselves to be Wargs. She cannot stay much longer, there is more chance of her being discovered if there are Wargs as well, but still she waits. The temptation to take down the lead orc is still strong, the idea of leaving Cwilon’s braid tied to his helm repugnant, filling her with anger but she knows this is not the time. She wrenches her focus away, grieving the necessity of leaving the orc alive. For the moment only, she vows. 

The shouting below has stopped, and before the orc now stands what could be considered the captains of this ramshackle band. The lead orc stands aside as though waiting for one of greater rank. Looking for anything more she can bring back to the king to persuade him to bestir himself, she waits a little longer and nearly betrays herself when she sees who steps out.

Saruman, still clad in white, stands before the assembled company. His words are too quiet for her to hear beneath the background noise of the orc horde, but they are obviously friendly, the orcs grinning and laughing, voices rising to horrible sounds of glee as they listen. Horror and rage filling her, Tauriel doesn’t linger any longer, making her way down the steps again as quickly as she can whilst remaining hidden. She swiftly climbs back down the wall, rejoining Legolas and gesturing him to follow her back into the cover of the trees before either of them speaks. Once there, she cannot hold her tongue any longer.

‘Saruman! He holds council with the orcs! He directs them to attack us with one hand while playing at friendship with the other!’

Legolas doesn’t protest, doesn’t show disbelief or cry that she must be wrong. He nods, accepting her words, and turns a grim face to Dol Guldur, still the seat of evil its name foretells. ‘We must take this news back to the king. Surely now he cannot fail to act, when such evil is already rooted within our home.’ They turn away, back to the north, and slip into the dim light between the trees.

In their haste, however, they are not as careful as they could be, and they fail to notice a dark figure crouched low at the base of a tree. They pass before it and it starts, giving a loud cry. The word itself is incomprehensible but the meaning comes through clear enough; they have been seen and will now be pursued.

‘They have Wargs!’ Tauriel warns Legolas, and both of them speed up. Luck is not on their side however, and they soon hear the cries of their pursuers, orcish shouts and the baying of the Wargs. Faster they run, but there must be sentries ahead for as they flee they see lights before them, burning torches and the glint of orc-made steel. 

‘To the trees!’ Legolas calls, but before they can climb the enemy are upon them, hemming them in on two sides, leaving their only safe way as a retreat back towards Dol Guldur. 

Tauriel refuses to go back there, not unless she has an army behind her. It is too close for bows; she and Legolas pull their knives and fight, spiking at any who draw too near, but the numbers are against them and soon they have no choice but to fall back.

‘The trees,’ Legolas gasps, ‘run back and climb up!’

Glad as ever that orcs cannot understand Sindarin though wishing she knew orc to learn of their strategy, Tauriel does as Legolas says, turning to run. But as she does an orc lunges forwards, grabbing at her braid. The jolt brings her up sharp and she struggles to turn and attack but her captor has a hold too close to her scalp and she has no room to move. 

Legolas is there within seconds, slicing at the hand in her hair until it recoils, dragging painfully as it does, trying to take her with it. Legolas slashes again, this time cutting her hair where the fingers grip and suddenly she is free. She darts forward, Legolas at her side, and within seconds they are up in the branches.

Below them the orcs split up, some surrounding the tree, some fanning out to see which direction they take. Tauriel and Legolas do not wait, swinging to the next tree without hesitating, moving on again from there. Elves are faster than orcs on the ground and though it is slower going in the trees, they still have the advantage. Within minutes they are far enough ahead that they can drop down to the ground again and take to foot, quickly leaving the orcs behind though the Wargs are still a danger. But now, with no need to maintain stealth they can run as fast as they can, and eventually even the sounds of the Wargs are lost.

‘They will keep pursuing us until they catch us,’ Tauriel gasps. 

Legolas nods, saving his breath, and they keep running.

 

*

 

It is many leagues to the halls of Thranduil and elven though they are, they cannot run the entire distance without rest, especially as they had none the night before. Eventually Tauriel calls a halt, knowing from her experience leading fighters that to rest for a short while is necessary. 

They do not light a fire, for though they will be safe from the Wargs for a while yet they can still attract the attention of the spiders if they are not careful. They sit, eating _lembas,_ and it is only now that Tauriel can spare a thought for her hair.

She loosens her braid, combing through the strands and feeling for the area Legolas cut. It is not as bad as she might have feared and it will not take long to grow out again, but none the less she rearranges her braids to hide the chopped strands. It is only as she finishes her braiding and feels around for her second clasp that she realises.

‘Ai! That orc has my clasp!’

Legolas snorts. ‘Better it have the clasp than it have you.’

‘Still.’ She cannot help but think of her clasp, probably now decorating some orc’s helm like Cwilon’s braid does. ‘It was one of those that you gave me.’

Legolas smiles at her. ‘I would always rather have you than any gift, _nethel_ , whether I gave it or received it.’

Tauriel smiles back at him. ‘And I you, _hanar._ Though I can still be sad to lose one of my favourite clasps.’

‘I shall give you another to celebrate when you lead our warriors to Dol Guldur and we drive the orcs from the Greenwood for good.’ 

Legolas’s words remind Tauriel once more of their situation. If there is one person she would choose to be in this position with it is Legolas, her brother in all but blood. He has ever been her support, believing in her when others dismissed her as too young, too headstrong, too impatient. The clasp she lost was given in celebration of her becoming a captain, and sad though she is to have the pair split, if the replacement commemorates the success Legolas speaks of it will be a worthy successor.

‘Rest for a while,’ she tells him, ‘then I will have a turn whilst you watch. We should be on the move again before long.’

He rolls his eyes but lies down. ‘Not too long,’ he warns her, before quickly falling into reverie.

 

*

 

They are on the move again before the moon has begun to sink in the sky. The leagues pass under their feet, slowly drawing them closer to the mountains and then to the halls of the king. They rest again on the second night, eating _lembas_ and taking turns to sleep before they continue. There has been no signs of pursuit, but neither of them believes the orcs and Wargs have given up on the scent.

By the end of the second day they are closer to the home woods, on the outer reaches of the regular patrols and nearing the forest road. The trees here are more awake than those on the outer reaches, and their familiar song is proof that these lands are still elf dominion. 

Though they are closer, there is still another day’s travel before they will reach true safety, or as safe as anywhere in the Greenwood can be these days. Part of Tauriel wants to push through, keep going until they reach the halls of the king but she knows this is a poor idea. Instead they follow the pattern of the previous days, resting in turns before moving on. There is still no sign of pursuit, but neither of them suggests slowing their run. It is not only their personal safety that is at risk; the longer it takes for the news to reach the king and forces to gather, the longer it will take to drive the orc filth from the Greenwood and the more people they may lose in the meantime. 

They push onwards without need for debate. 

 

*

 

Several hours later they rest by the forest road to eat more _lembas_ for the final stretch before home. They can finally afford to move more slowly here, for the orcs will not pass into this area, so close to the mountains where elves live in number. Here they are safe, and though the urgency of their message has not abated, five days of travel with little sleep, two before reaching Dol Guldur and three after, is wearing even to elves.

They are about to move on when there is the sound of voices, many raised in song, and through the trees comes a band of fighters lead by Hiladur, one of Tauriel's fellow captains. He stops at the sight of them, calling out.

‘Prince Legolas, Tauriel! Well it is that I have found you. There have been sightings of spiders again in the western regions and my king would have you come with us to send them off once more.’

Tauriel glances at Legolas and he looks back. Unspoken but understood is the need to give the king the news of Saruman and his allegiance with the orcs, but also the knowledge that they went hunting without permission and the king will have been aware of their absence. 

Close as they are, Tauriel can read Legolas’s thoughts without the need for speech. She nods in agreement.

‘I will come with you, Hiladur, but Tauriel must speak with the king and it cannot wait. You shall have to content yourself with me alone.’ Legolas’s tone is assured, and though Hiladur glances between them, likely knowing of the king’s wrath at their unauthorised leave, he makes no demure.

Tauriel watches the party move out of sight once more between the trees. The hope that the king will be appeased by Legolas having followed his orders is slim in the face of them both having disobeyed already, but it will perhaps help somewhat. 

She takes off again, running faster now. The fighters sent out will have little trouble with the spiders, but the problem of them is ever reoccurring. Perhaps Saruman has a hand in this too. The real worry is that the searching Wargs will come upon them. The quicker she can reach the king, the better.

The moon has not yet risen fully when she arrives at the halls of the king. She passes the guards without a word, making straight for the king’s chambers. But she does not find him there, and a question to a passing elf gives her the information that the king is in the throne room with the ambassador.

Tauriel makes her way there, puzzled. From where has this ambassador come? It cannot be the dwarves; relations between the two races are still fraught. Tauriel was leading a hunting party against the spiders when the dwarves passed through on the way to Erebor several years ago, and she did not return until they had escaped and summons from the king had reached her that the elven host were to head out to war. Tauriel once again sends a quick thanks to the Valar that Mithrandir managed to talk some sense into the dwarven king, freeing him from the gold madness in time to avert the battle and prepare for the fight against the goblins, sending them running with little difficulty. There could have been great losses otherwise.

The throne room is quiet when she enters; the only occupants King Thranduil and a Man, shorter than an elf, with lank dark hair and skin shaded an unhealthy white. Tauriel blinks to see him; Men do not usually venture into elven lands though there is no trouble between them, the Greenwood holding an understanding with Laketown. Why would an ambassador be needed?

‘Tauriel.’ The king’s voice is coldly displeased. ‘Returned at last. On who’s orders did you disobey my decree that none should enter the land around Dol Guldur?’

Tauriel blinks again. How does the king know? ‘My king, it was not my intention to disobey you, but the orcs -’ 

‘No. I forbade hunting after the orcs. I forbade passage to Dol Guldur. The only thing I did not forbid was for you to go with Hiladur to remove the spiders, but I see this you have also decided to disobey.’ 

‘My king, I have grave news to give you of what I saw in Dol Guldur! It was wrong of me to disobey,’ _debatable,_ Tauriel thinks, _but now is not the time for that debate,_ ‘but I must tell you of what we discovered!’ She glances at the Man. This should not be said in front of him, she feels sure the king would think. Too, the longer she watches him, the more uncomfortable she becomes. There is something not quite right about him.

‘Ah yes, ‘we.’ Am I to understand that my son went with you? That he too decided my word no longer bound him? Are you both no longer subjects of mine?’ The king’s voice is not any warmer and Tauriel feels the first stirrings of apprehension. Will the king even listen to her report? She decides not to wait for his permission to speak; one more transgression at this point will hardly matter.

‘My king, we followed the orcs to Dol Guldur and I watched from inside the castle as Saruman spoke with them, directing them and congratulating them. He has fallen to dark ways and brings his darkness to cloud the Greenwood, attacking us in the home that we opened to him.’ She waits, holding her breath in anticipation of his response.

There is no outward reaction from him. His face does not change and his only movement is to look at the Man still standing beside the throne. The Man has been watching Tauriel as she speaks and now he turns to face Thranduil. His pale tongue flickers over his lips before he speaks.

‘King Thranduil, my Master would not hold council with orcs, foul beasts that they are. His only purpose in Dol Guldur is to learn more of the one enemy’s dark ways in order to fathom the secret to his defeat. My master wishes only friendship with the elves of the Greenwood, and peace in which to work.’

‘No! King Thranduil, one of the orcs wore the braid of Cwilon upon his helm, and Saruman spoke to him as a friend while the orcs greeted Saruman as they would a commander.’ She cannot believe the king would not listen to her, no matter her disobedience. 

‘King Thranduil, it is not so. Consider my Master’s proposal; were it true, would he wish for more eyes to spy into his dealings? There is no truth to her words.’ The Man does not take his eyes off the king as he speaks.

Thranduil looks impassively at Tauriel. ‘Wormtongue comes as an ambassador from Saruman, seeking greater understanding between our houses. Saruman proposes we should each have an ambassador in the other’s home to foster a greater cooperation between our people, and to aid council against the orcish incursion. With your words, I have a mind to agree.’

Tauriel stares in horror at the king. This is not what she expected! Now she realises what has been nagging her about the Man; he has the stink of Saruman’s magic about him. Does he carry enchantments from his Master, tailored to the elven king?

‘Perhaps my lady would care to come and see the truth for herself, of the great works of my Master. Truly, if she spoke with my Master she would abandon these lies and attempts to bring trouble between us. For what else can this be but malicious whispers? All have heard of the deeds of Saruman the White, and none can say he is of the dark.’

‘No!’ The word bursts out before she can stop herself. Seeing the king’s look darkening she hurries to continue. ‘My king, what would I have to gain by lying to you? I swear to you, I saw with my own eyes these things I speak of. I would not deceive you!’ Too late she realises her mistake.

Thranduil’s eyes flash. ‘You would not deceive me and yet you would disobey my orders and lead my son astray with you. You would speak ill of one who is far beyond your understanding. Maybe your words are an attempt to distract me, or maybe you are still pushing to lead a force out of Greenwood to take the fight to the orcs. For who is to say that you would not chose to lead others astray if I should believe your words and grant you a fighting force as you so likely wish? You have interpreted my decisions to your own ends already, what is to say you would not again?’

‘My king, I would not! I am loyal to you, I do not lie!’ This is going wrong, Tauriel cannot believe how wrong.

‘Silence! I have decided. You will go to Dol Guldur and act as an ambassador in the house of Saruman. There you may see for yourself the folly of your baseless accusations against one who can be nothing but good. If you do not disgrace yourself and you learn to obey the orders you are given, you may return and resume your place as a captain of my guard. Until you can be trusted to follow my orders, you are stripped of that title.’ Thranduil’s face is stone.

‘No.’ Though she braces herself for the wrath that will surely be coming her way, she does not move. ‘I will not go to the home of one who consorts with orcs. You may take my title, punish me as you see fit, but I will not change my words. The wizard Saruman is no longer Saruman the White, the filth of the orcs has stained him. I will not go to Dol Guldur.’

Thranduil stands. His voice does not raise, he is controlled in all his actions. Only his tone betrays his fury. ‘You disobey me so openly? You will go to Dol Guldur and remain there until you recant your ill-thought words and I permit you to return, or I will see you banished from the Greenwood for your lies, and any elf you speak to will be banished alongside you, be they a child or my own son.’

Tauriel recoils in shock. This, this was not what she expected! ‘My- my king -’

‘No, no more arguments! Choose now; Dol Guldur or banishment?’ Thranduil is implacable. 

Tauriel bows her head. ‘I will go to Dol Guldur. May I have time to gather my belongings?’

Thranduil dips his head in assent, allowing in a little graciousness now Tauriel is following his orders. ‘You may have a night to rest before you depart tomorrow. I will send a messenger when you may return.’ He settles back onto his throne, and Tauriel bows to him before turning to leave. As she goes, she glances back one last time and sees the Man, Wormtongue, leaning in close to whisper in Thranduil’s ear.

 

*

 

In her rooms, Tauriel paces. How has it come to this? When did her king stop trusting the word of his subjects? Is this some working of Saruman’s as well? She knows she cannot go to Dol Guldur, for if she does she has no doubt that it will not be long before her braid adorns an orc helm as well. 

Then she must leave. She must leave, and tell no one where she goes. Perhaps she can go to Lothlórien, seek the help of the Lady. Or else Mithrandir, wherever he many be. But it may take many months to find him and in the meantime her home would suffer. Lothlórien is her best choice. 

Mind made up, she begins to pack a small bag. She does not need to take much except clothing, a comb, the necklace and knives her mother wore and the bow and tinderbox of her father. She also makes a trip to the store where they keep provisions for the fighters. _Lembas_ is always a good thing to pack.

She waits until most elves will be in reverie or in the trees singing to the stars before she makes her escape. She leaves a note for Legolas telling him where she plans to go, hidden where she hopes only he will find it. 

At first she turns to the north, following the forest river to throw off suspicion. She has no doubt she can be tracked and she wants to avoid having a troop sent to intercept her before she reaches Lothlórien. Banishment would mean she would be free to go wherever she chooses, but the idea of never returning to her home in the Greenwood is not appealing.

She travels swiftly through the night, eventually taking to the trees to hinder anyone trying to track her then returning to the ground once more as dawn begins to brighten the sky. She has left the forest river now and has turned west towards the edge of the wood. Crossing the open ground and following the Anduin down to Lothlórien is her best course, she feels. 

The light between the trees is beginning to brighten when she hears it. Wargs, close by. They are not baying, but she can hear their footfall in the leaf litter of the forest and the panting of their breath.

She freezes before turning back the way she came. If she can loop back and around them to make it to the edge of the forest she should be safe enough. She moves as silently as she ever has, not risking any sharp movements or even to climb into a tree again.

Luck, once more, is not on her side. She hears a deep sniffing sound seconds before she hears the howl of a Warg. They have her scent. 

She abandons stealth in favour of speed. She has outdistanced a Warg before, she can do it again. She risks a glance back to gauge the lead she has on them, and can see them not that far back. Quick though her glance is, she catches sight of something more worrying. On the back of the Warg is an orc, likely from the Misty Mountains, and it is clutching something in its hand, dangling it before the Warg’s nose. Something Tauriel recognises after a second with a thrill of dread. Her hair, the hair Legolas cut off to free her in Dol Guldur. They are looking for her specifically!

She puts her head down and speeds up, running as fast as she can. But it has been days since she last rested properly and she knows she is not as fast as she was even a day ago. 

She keeps going as long as she can. The Warg’s howls fade eventually, and she risks a stop to eat some _lembas,_ which gives her another burst of energy. She dares not stop for long. They have her scent, and having already ventured so near to the heart of the Greenwood, she does not think they will be put off now. Lothlórien is barred to her from this direction; the orcs all along the Misty Mountains will be looking for her.

Mithrandir then, she decides. He was last heard of in Laketown and Erebor, so she will seek him in the east. If he is not there she will make her way down the eastern edge of the Greenwood and into the Brown Lands, coming to Lothlórien that way. It will mean coming close to Dol Guldur, something she wishes to avoid, but it cannot be helped. 

But she cannot keep going like this without rest, and she will have to take the long way round to avoid ending up right back in the halls of the elven king, who by now will surely know she has gone and will not be pleased. She crosses the forest river one more before risking an hour’s rest, climbing a tree to slip into reverie. She cannot keep going without, and at least in a tree she has some protection if the Wargs catch up or elves come past looking for her. 

 

*

 

When she emerges from reverie the sun is lower in the sky than she expected. She has slept longer than planned, and she can waste no more time before she moves on.

By the time it is full dark, Tauriel is almost back to where she started, though several leagues northwards of the king’s halls. She has to use all her stealth to move now, not wanting to run into any sentries. As a captain of the guard she has the advantage of knowing where the sentries should be posted, but they will be roaming so she must proceed with caution. In the end she gives in to her need to rest once more, carefully climbing a tree and falling quickly asleep. 

When she wakes, though it is still before dawn she feels far more refreshed than she has for days. She eats some _lembas_ before she climbs down, and by the time it is fully light she is within a few leagues of the edge of the wood. 

When she emerges from the trees it is mid morning. She shades her eyes, looking across the land. She has come out higher than she expected, her detour to avoid the king’s halls having taken her north once more. From here she can see the Lonely Mountain, Erebor, some leagues away. Below it, some leagues more, is Laketown. To which should she go first? Erebor is closer, but her reception there will be frosty at best, and if Mithrandir is there, she may not be told. But if he is not in Lake town, she will have to turn back to Erebor, wasting more time.

Erebor then. She nods to herself and sets off. It is pleasant to be under the sun, and her pace slows now she has her destination in sight. It will take the Wargs and orcs a while to catch up; they will want to avoid the elven king and if they deviate from her trail they will need time to pick it up again. 

There is a fresh breeze blowing, she is better rested and has managed to slip away from her pursuers for the moment, and for the first time since she and Legolas set out to scout after the orcs she finds herself singing. The leagues pass pleasantly, the ground beginning to rise gradually as she nears the mountain.

She has come from the west, with the intent of skirting round and approaching the main entrance at the south, but she is still on the west side when she hears a shout. For a moment her heart stops; the orcs have found her already! Then she hears another, and another, and the clash of steel echoed by a cry of _Khazâd ai-mênu!_ The war cry is followed by an orcish bellow, and Tauriel turns to the sound. They may be the orcs looking for her or they may not be, but either way she is not going to pass by without a chance to take a few of them out!

 

*

 

‘If you hadn’t been daft enough to think it was a good idea to play a practical joke on Thorin right before his wedding, we wouldn’t be here,’ Gimli grumbles. ‘And why did you have to drag the rest of us into it?’

Kíli rolls his eyes. ‘I didn’t hear you arguing at the time,’ he replies. Gimli has been blaming Fíli and Kíli for this punishment since they were sent out here, but the plan that lead to it was as much Gimli’s as it was Fíli and Kíli’s. Well. Almost as much. Nearly as much.

Kíli looks at the rock face before them. He doesn’t think Thorin truly expects them to reopen the secret door Smaug destroyed six years ago, but it’s good make work as punishment for their prank. Copper nitrate in Thorin’s hair oil the morning before he was due to finally marry Bilbo was probably not the wisest decision Kíli has ever made, but the look on Thorin's face as he stormed out of his chambers with a blue beard was worth it. The copper nitrate washed out well enough. By the next day you could barely see the blue. Well, not much.

Still, it lead to the seven of them being banished to the west side of the mountain until Thorin calms down again, which Kíli can’t see happening any time soon. 

Still worth it though.

Pick-axe in hand, Kíli tries again to shift the boulder in front of him. Smaug’s wrath brought the mountainside down over the door, and the tumble of stones would take many dwarves many months to move. Their little work band has little chance of actually managing to make more than a slight dent in it, but they will keep going until either they break through or Bilbo calms Thorin down enough to recall them.

Thorin didn’t even let them bring any tubes of blasting powder. That’s how cross he was.

The boulder finally shifts, taking a shower of smaller stones with it as it bounces down to land many ells below. Kíli pauses to wipe his brow, looking around as he does, and he spots a slight movement in the rocks above.

A raven, he thinks for a moment, checking on them to report to Thorin. But no, it’s too big to be a raven. Too big and too spiky. 

‘Orc!’ he shouts, grabbing for his bow. It’s not safe to leave the mountain unarmed, something no dwarf would do anyway. Beside him, Gimli grabs for his axe and the others quickly take to arms too, hunkering down behind any cover they can find to avoid orcish arrows.

Kíli notches an arrow to his bow, leaning out just far enough to see if he can pick off any unwary orcs, the numbers of which seem to have multiplied since he raised the alarm. He sees one on the edge of the pack, lets his arrow fly then ducks back behind shelter before he in turn can be picked off. His arrow is answered by a volley of orcish ones, heavy black metal things, slow in flight but deadly none the less. 

He looks around him. Unstable rock is not the best place to have a battle, but this is the battleground they are on and so they must make do. 

Thwarted by the dwarves’ continuing to stay under cover, the orcs give a great shout as they pour out from behind the rocks. Kíli can’t think how they came to get so close without anybody noticing. Still, this is not the time to wonder.

As the orcs rush towards them, Fíli and Gimli are the first to break cover to meet them, the others not far behind. The two forces meet with a clash of steel. The archers have stopped firing, the odds of hitting one of their own too great. Kíli’s sword is in his hand and he swings at the orc closest to him. The orc parries and Kíli stops thinking about anything other than the fight.

Though the dwarves are more used to fighting on unstable rock than the orcs are, it’s not long before the sheer numbers of the enemy begin to overwhelm the dwarves. The battle-cry of _Khazâd ai-mênu_ still sounds, but the dwarves are being pushed further apart by the orcs. Kíli has managed to kill three, and Gêdul on his left has taken out another two, but the odds are not in their favour.

On his right he sees another orc coming for him, but he is fully engaged in fighting the one in front of him. Just as he fears this might be his last fight, an arrow not of orc make comes out of nowhere, hitting the orc in the ear and felling it instantly. 

Several ells in front of him he sees Akhzur fall and the orc he was fighting moves in for the killing stroke. Before it can, an arrow takes it in the throat and it falls backwards, choking.

Kíli is so surprised by this sudden change of circumstances that he almost falls for the feint of the orc in front of him, and has to reapply himself to his own fight and leave the mysterious archer for the moment.

He manages to get close enough in that he can make a stab at the orc’s poorly protected side where two plates of armour don’t quite meet. The orc goes down and Kíli finishes it with a slice to the neck.

Around him the tide of the battle has changed, with the archer having taken out more orcs and the dwarves redoubling their attacks. He goes to help Akhzur, who is hamstringing any orc that gets too close to his position on the ground.

The battle is over within minutes. Lusud and Lutur finish off the last two orcs together and then come to join Kíli and Akhzur, followed by Gêdul, Gimli and Fíli. 

‘Are you alright?’ Gêdul asks Akhzur.

Akhzur grimaces. ‘Sprained my bloody ankle on the rocks. I’ll be fine. Who’s the archer?’

They turn as a group, and Kíli can just make out a figure among the rocks, a little way down the slope. The figure is tall, and even from here Kíli can see how long the hair is. 

‘A Man?’ Lutur asks doubtfully.

‘Looks female,’ Lusud comments. Lutur shoots her twin a look.

‘You _would_ notice.’

Lusud grins back at her. ‘So would you,’ he replies. 

Kíli tunes out their familiar bickering, watching the archer approach. There’s something about the way she moves that stirs a memory. Has he seen her somewhere before?

No, he realises. She moves with extraordinary grace, too graceful to be mortal. 

‘Elf.’

The word stops the conversations around him, and all the dwarves put their hands on their weapons, Kíli included. She may have helped them against the orcs, but elves are rarely friendly towards dwarves, and even less rarely are found on the mountain with good intentions.

The elf stops some ells away. ‘Peace, dwarves. I come in friendship.’

Kíli raises his eyebrows involuntarily and he knows that beside him Fíli is doing the same. 

‘Oh aye?’ Gimli’s voice is not unfriendly, but it’s not welcoming either. ‘Tell us why you are here, and we’ll judge for ourselves if it is friendship.’

If elves gritted their teeth in annoyance, Kíli thinks this one would be. ‘I come seeking Mithrandir. Can he be found here, or have you word of where he travels?’

‘Mithrandir?’ Lusud sounds guardedly curious. ‘I do not recognised that name.’ He glances at the rest of the dwarves, who all shake their heads. 

The elf looks frustrated. ‘You know him well, do not deny it. He helped you retake Erebor and returned your king from the gold madness.’ Her tone is challenging.

‘Gandalf,’ Kíli realises, and for the first time the elf’s attention is on him. She nods.

‘I have heard this name used for him. Can he be found here, or has he left?’

‘He’s away now, he left a few days ago to go to Laketown.’ Kíli volunteers. The elf nods again.

‘Then I will take my leave of you and make my way there.’ She turns to leave.

‘Wait!’ Kíli blurts out without thinking. She turns back, eyebrows raised. ‘He was to go to Mirkwood and speak to Thranduil after that. He’s probably already left, you’d have better luck just going back home.’ 

A look crosses the elf’s face, one that Kíli can’t interpret. ‘I will await him in Laketown. Thank you for your assistance.’ She turns away again.

‘Wait!’ Kíli cries again, and this time when the elf looks back there is a distinctly amused air to her. ‘Gandalf is coming back here after he speaks to Thranduil,’ he explains quickly. ‘There’s no hurry. You would be better waiting for him here if you will not go to Mirkwood to find him.’ In the corner of his eye he catches the dirty look Fíli shoots him. Kíli looks away from the elf, staring pointedly at an orc, dead with an arrow in its eye, then looking back to his brother. Fíli makes a face then nods. Kíli turns back to the elf, giving her his most charming smile. ‘We’d be glad to have such a skilled archer about.’

The elf looks indecisive. ‘Would not your king object? He holds no love for elven-kind.’

‘Ha!’ Gimli snorts. ‘He’s cross enough with us as it is. I for one would rather have another skilled fighter if there are orcs abroad than worry about something he might never hear of.’

Kíli looks at Gimli, struggling to conceal his surprise at this change of attitude. Gimli looks back at him, a little uncomfortable. ‘Well, it’s true. If she hadn’t come along with her arrows we would not all be here.’ Among the rest of the group there are nods of assent, most emphatically from Gêdul. With poor grace, Fíli agrees as well.

The elf looks surprised. Kíli glances at the sun. It’s verging on evening and they are all injured to a greater or lesser extent. No more work today.

‘Come, lady, join us in our camp. We have shelter and food and you are welcome to share it.’ Kíli waits for her nod of assent before turning to lead the way back to their camp, thankfully away from where the orcs ambushed them. If the orcs had come from that side, Kíli doubts there would be a camp to return to.

Fíli helps Akhzur to stand and the group follows behind Kíli where he is leading the elf down the mountain. The two of them walk in silence, Kíli unsure of what to say to break it. It’s the elf who speaks first. ‘What brings you to be outside your mountain where orcs lurk?’

Kíli rolls his eyes. ‘Usually it is safe enough. That was more a roving band of troublemakers than a real attack.’ He hesitates before answering her question, unsure of how much to tell her. He doesn’t think Thorin or Fíli would be best pleased if he told one of Thranduil’s elves about the secret door, whether or not they manage to uncover it. ‘We played a joke on Thorin at the wrong moment, and he sent us out here to clear stone until he has forgiven us,’ Kíli settles on in the end.

The elf looks amused. ‘What did you do to him?’

Kíli grins widely at the memory of Thorin's furious face above the bright blue beard. ‘We dyed his beard blue the day before his wedding. We thought it would be appropriate, blue being Durin’s colour.’

The elf laughs, a rippling, musical sound to Kíli’s ear. ‘Ah, well I know the temptation! Legolas and I once put raspberry juice in King Thranduil’s hair wash, to make him look more like his Silvan people.’

Kíli laughs, the image of the stern, haughty king with bright red hair an appealing one. He doesn’t miss, however, the mention of Thranduil and his son, dropped so casually. ‘Are you close kin to the king?’

A shadow passes the elf’s face. ‘Before, I would have said he has been as a father to me, but now...’ She trails off, and Kíli leaves her be, sensing her darkening mood.

The walk to the camp is not far and the group is soon seated around the firepit, tending their various wounds. Akhzur is not the only one injured, nor the most severe, but none of them carry any life-threatening wounds. Gêdul, as the least injured with only bruises and a shallow cut to the thigh, is sent to collect water while Fíli and Kíli fetch wood and get the fire lit. 

The elf stands off to the side, and it’s not until they have water boiling for cleaning their cuts that she comes to sit down. Digging in her back, she pulls out a bundle which when unwrapped turns out to contain dry, wrinkled leaves, silver-grey-brown in colour. 

‘Add these to the water. They will help with the healing.’ She proffers them to Kíli, who looks at Lutur. Lutur takes them, prodding them with a dubious finger and shrugging.

‘I don’t know what they are,’ she says, looking to the elf.

‘Athelas, a healing herb much used among elves,’ the elf replies. ‘Some Men use it as well, though the practise is not common among them.’

Lutur looks to Fíli as the final call, and when he shrugs, she tips them into the water. The fragrant steam that immediately rises makes everybody sit up straighter, eyes brightening. ‘Ah, _ibsêtmajd_!’ Lutur exclaims in recognition. ‘I did not recognise it dried!’

When their injuries have been tended and bound, Gimli begins to make dinner from their store of dried meat in addition to the potatoes and other vegetables they have. Lusud sighs. ‘This again? No offence to your cooking, Gimli,’ for indeed, Gimli is one of their better cooks, ‘But I would wish for some variety.’

Gimli scowls at him. ‘If I had something else to cook I would, but unless you can make fresh food from thin air I would thank you not to complain.’

Kíli has a sudden thought, glancing at the elf. ‘Does your kind eat meat? Would you have us prepare something without for you?’

The elf shakes her head. ‘Nay, we eat meat, though not in any great quantity. I would offer to share my own supplies but all I have is waybread and apples.’

Fíli’s eyes light up. ‘Apples? You have apples? Would you share?’ 

The elf nods, passing one to each dwarf, and Kíli knows that his brother will now feel much more kindly disposed towards the elf.

The stew, when it comes, is bland despite Gimli’s best efforts, and no one seems particularly enthusiastic though all are hungry after the battle. The elf, when she tries it, cannot conceal her expression, and Kíli sees Gimli turn away, scowling into his bowl. 

The elf sees it too. ‘If I am to stay with you and share your rations, would you let me make some contribution? I can hunt while you are working if you wish, and mayhap I could find some herbs on my travels as well.’

A shared glance between the dwarves takes but a second before they come to an agreement, a resounding _‘Yes!’_ coming from all.

 

*

 

Tauriel smiles privately at their enthusiasm. It is little enough to do this for ones who have been so unexpectedly kind. Beside her, the beardless dwarf with the dark hair smiles at her, happy at the thought of fresh food. The others are smiling too, to a greater or lesser extent, even the blond dwarf who seemed the most opposed to her joining them.

Gimli, as she thinks the red dwarf is named, looks at her thoughtfully. ‘If you could find us some marjoram or chervil that would be grand.’ Tauriel nods, making a note of it, and the dwarf looks satisfied.

Glancing around her new companions, Tauriel makes a note of their differences, though she has few names to put to them yet. ‘Is it your custom to break your fast with one who’s name you do not know?’ She tries to put it lightly, but a hint of tension shows through.

The beardless dwarf looks abashed. ‘I apologise, lady, for our discourtesy. I am Kíli, son of Víli.’ Next to him, the blond dwarf introduces himself as Fíli, son of Víli, and Tauriel is a little surprised at the two being brothers. 

The two who introduce themselves as Lusud and Lutur she could have pinned for twins, though by the way the group laughs she does not hide her surprise adequately when she learns that Lutur is a dwarrowdam, so alike is she to her brother.

‘And I am Tauriel Fanuilosiel of the Greenwood,’ she finishes with, when everyone else has introduced themselves. ‘I thank you for your hospitality to one who is far from home.’

With the meal finished the dwarves all pull out pipes and begin to smoke, apart from Lusud, who leaves for a moment to go into the tent and comes back with a ball of wool and needles, beginning to knit. There is little talk as they smoke, and Tauriel wonders if this is from habit or exhaustion.

Exhaustion, it seems, as it is not long before the dwarves begin to retire to their tent, leaving only Lusud seated. Kíli turns to her as he stands. ‘Will you join us in the tent, lady?’

Tauriel wonders at his address to her but shrugs it off as dwarven custom. ‘Nay, I will remain beneath the stars, for the night is warm and dry. But thank you.’

Kíli looks at her for a long moment before shrugging. ‘As you choose, lady. I wish you a good night then.’ Tauriel returns the pleasantry and he joins his fellows in the tent. 

Across from her, Lusud looks up from his knitting. ‘Is it true that elves sleep with their eyes open?’

Tauriel nods. ‘We call it reverie, and rarely do we sleep with our eyes closed. We also need less sleep than mortals.’

Lusud looks interested, if Tauriel is reading it right beneath his beard. ‘Do you intend to sleep tonight?’

‘For a little while only, and not yet. I wish to enjoy the stars first.’ She can guess at what Lusud is hinting at. ‘If you would like, I can take the first watch?’

Lusud stands with alacrity. ‘Thank you for your kind offer, Tauriel, I will accept. Wake Fíli whenever you want to sleep, it’s his turn after me.’ He walks to the tent before she has time to answer, and from inside she can hear grumblings as the dwarves are disturbed and comments on Lusud’s ability to get out of doing his share of work.

Silence quickly falls over the camp and Tauriel revels in the opportunity to stay in one place in relative safety. She wonders how Legolas is getting on, how far behind her the orcs will be chasing. Here, though she is in the open, there are tried warriors close by who hate the orcs as much as she and would not hesitate to come to her aid. Staying here until Mithrandir returns is certainly her best choice. 

She sings under her breath, watching the stars and following the moon as it tracks across the sky. She intended to wait longer before falling into reverie but though she slept earlier she has hardly rested at all for several days and she can feel herself beginning to flag.

She goes to wake Fíli, who grumbles but gets up willingly enough. Beside him, a bedroll moves as Kíli turns over. ‘Lady, take my brother’s place and rest in here, if you would like.’

‘Will he not mind?’ Again she wonders at Kíli's reluctance to use her name. Lusud used it easily enough so it cannot be dwarven custom.

‘He may grumble but he would not truly object. He will take the place of the next sentry when he wakes them.’ Kíli’s voice is certain, and Tauriel takes him at his word, lying down next to him. In the dark, their faces are only a hand span apart. She can make out the gleam of Kíli's eyes as he watches her face. She thinks he will close his eyes, turn away and go back to sleep but he doesn’t. ‘You have a lovely singing voice,’ he says at last.

Tauriel blinks. ‘I am sorry, I did not mean to keep you awake.’ Evidently her singing was not as quiet as she thought.

Kíli shakes his head slightly. ‘No, you need not apologise. It was lovely to hear.’ In the darkness it is difficult to tell, but Tauriel thinks his cheeks turns a little darker before he closes his eyes determinedly.

Tauriel does not lie awake long, and as she drifts into reverie she wonders at how easily the beginnings of friendship seems to have sprung up between dwarves and an elf.

 

*

 

The morning is clear and the dwarves break their fast with porridge and salt, which Tauriel declines, finding it too heavy. She resolves to try and find some berries, if she can, to brighten the palate. 

The dwarves wish her good hunting and make their way off to where they were working the day before. Tauriel heads off in the other direction with her bow, making sure to keep away from the south entrance to the mountain as Kíli warned her to do. The day is bright and she wanders at will, ever keeping an eye out for any more orcs while searching for the herbs Gimli asked for.

As the day begins to draw towards evening she makes her way back to the camp, a brace of rabbits over each shoulder and pockets stuffed with wild thyme and marjoram. When the dwarves return to the camp, Gimli is delighted to see the rabbits and herbs, and joins her in finishing preparing them. The meal is greeted with much more enthusiasm tonight.

Afterwards, the dwarves sit around the fire once more, and once more Kíli is beside her. The dwarves are in much better spirits tonight and the talk between them is merrier. Tauriel sits back, not wishing to force her way into the conversation, but they do not let her sit in silence. They ask her about her home, and though Fíli grumbles a little about Thranduil’s treatment of dwarves in the past, they all listen attentively as she talks about the Greenwood. 

The talk turns back to Erebor and to Akhzur’s work towards his mastery, which seems to have been put on hold while they are out working off their punishment. Tauriel can understand his unhappiness at having to leave it for a while, especially so close to completion, and asks what he is to become master of.

‘Filigree and inlay,’ he says gruffly. Tauriel has never heard him sound anything else, even if she has not known him long. His sharp eyes flick to the clasp in her hair. ‘That is some fine work you have there. Are you a smith yourself?’

Tauriel laughs. ‘Nay, I am not skilled in a craft. I am a warrior, and a captain of the guard. Legolas gave these to me when I achieved my rank.’

The dwarves all nod, Gêdul smiling at Akhzur, and for the first time Tauriel sees Akhzur smile too, looking at Gêdul with a soft look on his face.

Kíli leans close and whispers to her, under cover of Lutur shoving Lusud for an off colour comment. ‘Gêdul and Akhzur are to be wed, when Akhzur has finished his mastery.’

Tauriel looks at him, surprised. ‘Two males are allowed to wed, in your culture?’ 

Evidently her voice carries, for the noise around the fire falls silent, all the dwarves looking at her. ‘Is this not so with your people?’ Gimli’s voice is carefully blank as he speaks.

Tauriel shakes her head, a little alarmed to have them suddenly so focused on her. ‘No, elves may marry whomever they like. We do not begrudge happiness. But it is not so with Men, and I have not heard of the practise with dwarves.’

The group as a whole relaxes, letting go of a subtle tension Tauriel was barely aware of until it was gone. ‘Men are strange to us too, and dwarves do not share their customs easily,’ Kíli says. ‘Thankfully not all races are like Men, or we would have a very unhappy king.’ The group laughs, and Tauriel gathers from the following comments that King Thorin is married to the hobbit Bilbo Baggins. 

The dwarves begin to put out their pipes, making ready for bed and Tauriel again volunteers to take the first watch. This time, she is told in no uncertain terms, Lusud is to follow her shift.

Soon the last dwarf is in the tent, save for Kíli. He is quiet for a while, staring into the fire as the other dwarves make ready for sleep, and as their sound dies he finally turns to her. ‘Would you sing again tonight, lady?’

Tauriel looks at him searchingly for a moment, but he seems sincere. She nods. ‘I will, and you are welcome to listen if you please, but will you not call me by my name? Or is there a custom I do not know that prevents it?’

Kíli blushes a little. ‘No, lady – Tauriel. There is no custom that prevents it. I would be happy to use your name, as a friend.’ He doesn’t give a reason for not using it so far and Tauriel does not push. She smiles at him.

‘I would be pleased to call you friend, Kíli son of Víli.’ Kíli blushes a little stronger, and Tauriel is amused at how easily he is discomposed by such a simple thing, words of friendship from an elf.

She hides her amusement, beginning to hum as she considers what to sing. She decides on a simple melody that talks of the beauty of Lothlórien and the mallorn trees, and tells of their origins in the west. 

 

*

 

Kíli knows he is staring at Tauriel as she sings but he can’t help himself. Her voice is pure and clear, the music so different to that of dwarves. He doesn’t know what she is singing of, the elvish tongue foreign to his ears, but the sound is no less the sweet for it.

Tauriel is gazing upwards as she sings, seeming to have forgotten his presence, and it is only when she finishes the song and turns to look at him that Kíli realises he has no idea what expression was on his face as he looked at her.

He drops his head, picking up a stick to poke at the fire. ‘That was wonderful, Tauriel. Thank you for letting me listen.’ He is impressed by how steady he manages to keep his voice. He glances at Tauriel when he is sure he has his expression under control once more.

Tauriel looks pleased by the praise. ‘Thank you, Kíli. You are very kind; by elvish standards, I am only passable.’

Kíli can’t imagine any voice more beautiful, but he doesn’t say that. ‘Would you sing something else?’ he asks instead, and Tauriel nods before beginning a different tune, the words still incomprehensible but the melody much slower and more sombre. This goes on for what Kíli would guess to be several lines before the tone changes, becoming lighter and freer, the notes sitting at the higher end of the scale.

The song alternates between the two tones, becoming faster as it goes, and Kíli knows this time he is staring breathlessly at Tauriel. The music is all he can hear, her face all he can see, and the song is winding higher and higher, making him feel dizzy and almost drunk.

When it comes to an end Kíli can’t speak for long moments. It takes him some time to come back to earth, the music releasing him slowly. Tauriel looks a little worried, as though expecting a criticism, but Kíli can’t imagine how anyone could find fault with her singing.

It takes him two attempts to speak. ‘That was beautiful. What was it about?’

Tauriel looks pleased again. ‘It is about two lovers, one who feels the sea-longing and one who wishes to stay in the woods. It is a duet, really, but it can be sung alone.’

Kíli wonders if Tauriel would teach it to him so that he may sing with her, but hesitates to ask. It is perhaps not proper. Before he can speak again, Tauriel asks him about dwarven music.

‘It is not like elven music,’ Kíli says. ‘We sing in chorus, and the rock sends the echoes back until we fill the mountain with music. I could not do it justice on my own.’ He looks to Tauriel to see if she is offended by his reluctance to sing here, but she is not looking at him, instead staring upwards, eyes and face sharp.

‘What is it?’ Kíli whispers, not wishing to break her concentration.

‘Bird wings,’ she replies, not looking away from the sky, head turning slightly as she searches for the source of the sound.

‘There are owls and bats in these parts,’ Kíli offers, expecting at any moment to hear the call of a short eared owl or the squeak of bats. Instead the sound that echoes in the night is neither, a drawn out screech, harsh and croaking as though a raven in torment. 

Tauriel shakes her head. ‘Nay, this is a fell creature, not a natural beast, and I fear I know from where it comes.’ She does not say any more, looking fierce, and though they sit there for another while there are no more sounds.

Before Kíli takes his leave of Tauriel for the night, he looks at her. ‘Will you tell me what you fear of this bird?’ 

Tauriel is silent for a moment before nodding. ‘You have a right to know. In the morning I will say to you all. I will take watch tonight. Sleep well, Kíli.’ 

It is a long while before Kíli sleeps, thoughts twisting in his head.

 

*

 

The dwarves have broken their fast with porridge and Tauriel with _lembas_ before she begins to speak. 

‘Several seasons ago, my king received court from the wizard Saruman, who desired to take residence in Dol Guldur in the south of the Greenwood. He wished to learn more of its dark secrets and begin to cleanse the evil from it, bringing it back to a place of light. This is what he said and my king believed him, allowing him to do as he pleased there. Not long after there began to be attacks made on the woodland elves by orcs. At first it was only sorties on the outer edges of the wood, but it was not long before the orcs became more bold, venturing further into its heart, nearer and nearer to our homes, hiding in the woods between attacks and slaying any of my people they found.

‘We tried to battle them when they appeared and hunt them between times, but my king forbade us from following them, preferring to strengthen our borders rather than pursue the menace. Many of us tried to reason with him but he would not be swayed. Eventually, after a battle in which there were many elves slain, Legolas and I went against his orders and followed the orcs as they retreated. We tracked them to Dol Guldur, and fearing for Saruman’s safety, we listen to their council. There I saw Saruman praising and leading the orcs, talking with them as equals. We left, intending to take the news back to the king and mount an attack on Saruman before he realised we knew of his treachery. But as we fled we stumbled across a sentry and were pursued from Dol Guldur and for many leagues northwards until we could evade them. Before we could tell the king, Legolas was ordered to join a spider-hunting party and we parted, I to tell the king of what I had seen. But the king was in council with a Man, an ambassador of Saruman, and he would not listen to my words. I believe Saruman has bewitched him. My king ordered me to go to Dol Guldur and remain there or be banished from the Greenwood. And thus I fled, thinking to go to Lothlórien and seek help, but the way was barred to me, for as I fled Dol Guldur a hand ripped both clasp and hair from my head, and the orcs used it to track me. So I turned back, thinking instead to find Mithrandir here, and instead met you. But I fear those who would track me have not lost the scent yet, and the creature last night was a spy and a messenger for Saruman, seeking news of me.’ She finishes her tale and faces the dwarves, waiting for their response with as much composure as she can feign. 

 

*

 

Fíli is the first to speak. ‘I do not like that you came to our home bringing this trouble and did not even have the courtesy to warn us.’ He looks pensive, and Kíli has a sudden worry that he will send Tauriel away to face this threat alone. 

_She will not go alone, if that is the case,_ he vows, then stops. Why is he so sure about this? Would he really leave his brother and friends to traipse along behind an elf? Before he can think on this, Fíli speaks again.

‘It was poorly done of you not to warn us, but at the same time I know you would have left to seek Gandalf elsewhere had we not urged you to stay, and that you have sat watch for the last two nights. You have fought beside us and talked with us as a friend, and I would believe your story and that you meant no malice, though you be an elf.’ Here Fíli smiles, and Kíli lets out the breath he has been unconsciously holding, relief swooping through him. He will not have to choose between staying with his comrades and following an elf he barely knows, and elf who is becoming worryingly central to his thoughts.

 

*

 

Tauriel lets out the breath she has been holding. ‘I thank you, friend Fíli, for your acceptance of my words.’ She bows her head slightly. ‘It was a harsh blow to have my king disbelieve me and threaten to banish me, and you and your people have made me welcome in a way I did not expect.’ She smiles at Fíli, at all the dwarves in turn, ending with Kíli who sits beside her. His eyes are unreadable as he smiles back at her, and Tauriel feels a flutter of worry. Does he doubt her?

Gimli speaks next. ‘Dwarves are not so inhospitable as others can be.’ He sinks into a frowns, and Kíli beside him shoves his shoulder, turning to Tauriel. 

‘Gimli’s father was one of the dwarves in King Thorin’s party whom your king held captive. He can be unnecessarily touchy on the subject.’

Gimli turns his frown on Kíli once more. ‘I am not unnecessarily touchy. You are too forgiving, cousin. But it was not Tauriel's doing, and it would be ill done to hold it against one who has fought at our sides and hunted for our pot.’ 

The rest of the group nods and murmurs agreement, and Tauriel feels all but the last dregs of tension drain away. She will not be forced to go, to leave this unexpected group of friends and once more be solely on guard against any who would come for her.

Beside her, Kíli is silent, and she feels her tension rising again. Is he cross with her? Does he feel she should have told him sooner? She twitches her head impatiently. Why does one dwarf, friendly though he may be, matter so much in his opinions?

Gimli breaks into her thoughts once more. ‘Will you hunt again today, Tauriel? Last night’s meal was much improved thanks to you.’

Now Kíli frowns at Gimli. ‘Maybe Tauriel should stay close to us, lest the servants of Saruman find her alone.’

And now Tauriel feels like frowning at Kíli. ‘I am not helpless, as you should yourself remember. I will go where I please, and if Saruman’s servants find me I will fight them off as I have done before.’ She does not let him answer, instead picking up the porridge pan and dishes and taking them to wash in the stream.

She does not return to the camp before the dwarves leave, sitting by the stream for a while. She notes a thicket of nettles with many young shoots, thinking to come back another time to gather them for Gimli. She takes the dishes back to the camp when she feels sure the dwarves will have left. Her irritation with Kíli has hardly waned. Does he really think her that incapable? Useful only for looking decorative and singing prettily? 

Her irritation makes her less cautious than usual, and her stomping through the heather and grass frightens a grouse out of cover, whirring away into the distance. This irritates her more; had she not been so loud, she could have caught it for the pot!

She forces herself to calm down, look around her, and soon the pleasant weather and bright sun have a beneficial effect on her. She misses the trees, of course she does, she grew up around their song, but it is no bad thing to be out on the mountainside on such a beautiful day. She finds herself singing and decides to enjoy herself for a while. She can do that and still watch for enemies. No matter what Kíli thinks, she is capable of both.

 

*

 

Kíli looks up from his work again, scanning the horizon for any sight of either Tauriel or orcs. Beside him, Fíli huffs. ‘Much as I hate to say it, that elf saved us when she turned up. I hardly think that two days are enough to make her need you to rescue her.’

Kíli glares at him. ‘She can fight her own battles, I know this! But she should not have to do so alone. It would be better of one of us were to stay with her.’

On his other side, Gimli snorts. ‘Oh aye, and I reckon I know who you would pick. Well, bad luck to you, cousin. I fear your new friend did not appreciate your concern this morning.’

Fíli chortles. ‘New friend! No, cousin, Kíli thinks of her as more than a friend.’ He shoots Kíli a knowing look, and Kíli hates himself for blushing, knowing they can all see it and cursing yet again his lack of beard.

‘No! She is a friend, nothing more.’ No matter his words, he knows his voice holds a wistful note.  
Gimli barks out a laugh. ‘Ha! Well, if that’s the way your fancy runs. Catch me looking at an elf; far too little beard for my tastes.’ Fíli nods in agreement.

Kíli stays silent. Tauriel is a friend, nothing more, and she will never look at Kíli any other way. No matter what he may or may not have wondered.

Kíli tries to bring the conversation back to the original point. ‘She may be an able warrior, but one alone cannot fight off an entire company of orcs. If something happened, how would we know?’ 

Fíli and Gimli both shrug. ‘We are not unobservant, I think we would see a company of orcs coming from Mirkwood before they get close.’

‘We did not see the ones the other day.’ Kíli looks meaningfully at his brother.

‘But those orcs were looking for us, not Tauriel, and she saw them and drove them off. Clearly she can look after herself.’ Fíli does not look like he will stand any more arguments, and Kíli subsides. But he doesn’t stop looking around. For all Kíli’s words, Kíli notices his brother does not start a work song, and he catches the others glancing at the horizon every so often as well.

 

*

 

He doesn’t feel comfortable until the group makes it back to the camp to find Tauriel sitting, singing, the fire already started and several plucked and gutted grouse beside her. Gimli exclaims, thanking her, and sets to roasting them with the juniper berries she has gathered.

Kíli comes to sit beside Tauriel, and he doesn’t think he is imagining the cool way she greets him, and when she turns instead to make conversation with Gimli on her other side, he knows she is annoyed with him.

She speaks little to him throughout dinner, and when the dwarves are smoking and talking still she speaks to Gimli rather than him. He sits in silence and it is not until the others begin to make for bed than he has a chance to talk to her.

‘Tauriel, have I done something to offend you?’ He stares into the embers as he asks, poking at the ash with a stick. 

‘Oh no.’ Tauriel's voice is still cool. ‘Every woman likes being thought incapable.’ She sniffs.

‘Incapable?’ Kíli can’t contain his disbelief. ‘I don’t think you incapable! You showed how fierce a warrior you are when you saved us all! How could I think you incapable?’

‘Then you think I should have told you sooner of Saruman’s search for me? You feel I have brought danger to your company?’ Tauriel's voice is still sharp.

‘No! Well, yes,’ Kíli amends. ‘You have brought danger, and you probably should have warned us, but I am not cross with you. You did not tell us because you feared we would disbelieve you, and you risk much to bring news to Gandalf. How could I be cross with you?’ He gazes up at her, willing her to believe him.

Now Tauriel looks at him, puzzled. ‘But you were unhappy this morning with the thought of me going off alone. Did you not doubt I could look after myself?’

‘No!’ Kíli puts his hand on her arm unthinkingly. ‘I know you can, but I worried that there would be too many to fight alone. Saruman is still looking for you and I don’t think he will stop. What if we did not know you were in trouble?’ 

Tauriel's face softens. ‘You were worried for me?’ Kíli nods, looking down, and suddenly realises he’s still holding her arm. He tries to pull away subtly, but Tauriel puts her hand over his, holding him in place. ‘I thank you for your worry, Kíli.’ She says something else, but Kíli can’t hear it, too focused on the feel of her hand on his. This is the first time they have touched skin to skin, and it sends a wave of goosebumps up Kíli’s arm. Vaguely aware that Tauriel is looking questioningly at him, he manages a noise of enquiry.

‘I asked if you would like to come hunting with me tomorrow,’ Tauriel asks again. ‘If you may.’ 

Kíli feels his heart leap. ‘I would like nothing better, Tauriel.’ Fíli will give him permission or Kíli will tell Akhzur who blunted his favourite graver. 

 

*

 

Fíli allows Kíli the day off without any protest, and Tauriel leads him towards the northern slopes where she saw sage bushes the day before.

‘If we can catch some more rabbits for Gimli, he might make a stew again tonight. The sage will go well.’ Tauriel thinks she will find salad leaves for herself today. She is not used to this much meat.

Kíli has brought his bow, and Tauriel asks him about it as they walk. They fall into a conversation about archery, meandering away from the subject eventually and beginning to talk more about themselves. Kíli asks her about the dandelion leaves she stops to gather, and Tauriel tells him a little about elves, asking in return of dwarves. Though she usually prefers to journey alone save with one she knows well, Kíli is a pleasant companion and the day passes enjoyably. They both keep an eye out but there are no signs of any of Saruman’s spies. 

They return to camp late, though with a rabbit apiece. When Gimli asks where they were, all the dwarves seeming a little concerned, Tauriel explains about the small contest they stopped to have. She was impressed with Kíli’s shooting. Over long distances her sharper eyesight gave her the advantage, but Kíli is a strong archer still. If it were a formal competition she would be hard pressed to declare the outcome. 

Talk round the fire tonight is of past fights, and Tauriel learns that despite their few years, many of the company have already seen battle. Lutur is apparently particularly known for her axe-work, and she and Gimli are friendly rivals on that front. 

When the fire dies down to embers and the rest of the company gets ready to sleep, Kíli asks Tauriel if she will sing tonight. ‘I missed it last night.’

Tauriel has to look away from his hopeful expression, an unaccustomed heat rising in her face. She was not lying when she said she was only passable by elvish standards, and she is not used to this eager praise.

‘If you like,’ she says, a little embarrassed and still not looking at him. She feels him shift beside her, getting comfortable, and she feels a sudden irritability. She turns abruptly to look at him. ‘Will you join me tonight, or am I just to perform for you, without being permitted to hear dwarven singing?’

Kíli looks shocked, and Tauriel abruptly regrets her harsh words. Why is she so out of sorts? Is it that she misses the Greenwood and her friends? Dwarven company is not so bad and Kíli has been nothing but kindness to her, so why is she snapping at him?

‘Tauriel, I would not have you sing if you do not want to.’ Kíli sounds stricken, and Tauriel feels even worse.

‘I apologise, Kíli. I did not mean to snap at you. I would be happy to sing, and if you want to join me I will teach you a little. But do not feel that you must.’

Kíli places his hand on her arm, and Tauriel feels her skin come alive with the heat of his palm. She almost misses his words, so absorbed is she by the unexpected sensation. ‘I would love to learn some of your songs, and I would sing for you if you truly wished. I did not ask to learn before as I did not know if it would be proper.’

Tauriel drags her mind away from the dizzy rush of their touch and brings it back to the conversation. ‘There is no reason not to teach you a little, if you would enjoy it.’ Kíli’s smile tells her he would.

She sounds out the first verse phonetically, correcting Kíli when he misspeaks. His look of concentration over the unfamiliar words, his pleasure when he gets it right causes a flutter in Tauriel's stomach. She frowns down at it. Why is it reacting to Kíli like that?

Probably just indigestion, she decides.

 

*

 

Kíli makes it to the end of the second verse on his own and looks at Tauriel to see if he got it right. The Sindarin words are difficult to one used to Westeron and Khuzdul, but he thinks he’s picking it up quickly enough.

Tauriel isn’t looking at him though. She’s sitting upright, head tilting from side to side, eyes scanning the darkness. ‘What is it?’ Kíli asks, hushed.

Tauriel turns to look to the west, towards Mirkwood. Her body is tense, and Kíli strains to see through the dark and follow her gaze.

‘Lights.’ Tauriel’s voice is quiet but certain, and Kíli stands as silently as he can, making his way into the tent and shaking the others awake. Within minutes all the dwarves have joined them outside, weapons in hand, rubbing the remnants of sleep from their eyes. It is not long before they too can see the lights, four clusters spread out in a semi-circle around the camp, perhaps half a mile away now.

‘Stay low and away from the fire,’ Tauriel says, ever a captain, but the dwarves hardly need the command. Kíli keeps his bow on his back, the night too dark for him to shoot accurately; his sword will be of more use. Beside him, Gimli fingers his axe and Fíli swings his swords, all waiting for a signal to tell them whether friend or foe approaches.

Tauriel’s knives are in her hands, and even with the mounting tension in the group, Kíli looks forward to fighting alongside her, watching her graceful movements turn deadly.  
The lights grow nearer and then, as though a sign has been given, they go out. Not friend then, Kíli thinks. 

‘Spread out and ambush?’ Fíli’s voice is hardly more than a breath of sound, but the group hears. Tauriel nods in agreement, and Fíli directs the dwarves using _iglishmêk_ , telling them where to position themselves. Kíli crouches in the heather some little distance away from the fire. He sees the sense in Fíli’s plan; this way they cannot be picked off with arrows from afar, but he still regrets that he won’t be fighting beside Tauriel.

It’s not long before he can hear stealthy movements as a group approaches through the heather. They obviously don’t expect the dwarves to be awake or to have posted a sentry. More fool them, Kíli thinks. The groups of what Kíli can now see are orcs converges on the remains of the fire at the same time, and against the faint light Kíli counts five to a group. Easy numbers, especially with Tauriel on their side. He begins to creep forward as silently as he can, closing the gap between him and the closest orc. 

The orcs surround the tent, and with some dismay Kíli realises they plan to set fire to it, one orc reigniting his torch and about to put it to the canvas. Before he can, there is a brief scream as an orc falls, legs gone from under him as Fíli swings his dual swords. Not even a second passes before the cry of ‘ _Khazâd ai-mênu_ ’ rings out, first from Fíli then echoed by the others. Kíli shouts too, rising out of the darkness and heather to attack the closest orc before he even realises Kíli is there.

The battle is over in a very short space of time. Surrounded by dwarves and silhouetted against the faint glow from the embers, the orcs hardly stand a chance. Kíli takes two down, and by the time he finishes with the second there are no more foe standing, Akhzur finishing with the last of them.   
Pulling his axe free, Akhzur grunts and wipes his brow. ‘Hardly worth waking us up,’ he grumbles, and Lusud nods in agreement.

Kíli looks about for Tauriel, finding her standing with Fíli over the body of one of the orcs. Though the battle was short-lived and very one-sided, he still feels a pulse of relief at seeing her unharmed, and can’t resist going to join her. She smiles at him, and the warmth in it makes Kíli’s heart turn over in his chest.

He smiles helplessly back and knows his heart is in his eyes. _Oh dear,_ is all he can think. 

 

*

 

They wait until the morning to burn the orcs’ bodies, piling them up some distance downwind of the camp. Gêdul suggests burning them on the same ground as last time so as not to poison two patches of earth, but he is overruled by the others, none of whom are keen on carrying the orcs up the slope.

Tauriel would have voted with Gêdul, but her mind is on other things. The indigestion of the night before has not gone away, flaring up whenever she looks at Kíli, whether or not she catches his eye. This might not be indigestion after all.

She elects to spend the day alone, managing to convince Kíli with the argument that Saruman is unlikely to send out another band until he knows the first one has failed. Never the less, as she wanders the moor and mountainside, she feels as though unseen eyes are watching her. It does not help her in her thoughts, and eventually she gives up, going back to camp early with only a couple of handfuls of strawberries to show for her day’s travels. 

Here at least she can think, the sound of the dwarves’ efforts just within the range of her hearing. She avoids considering why the sound brings her comfort when she used to revel in the silence and solitude of the woods. How quickly hearts change, she muses. 

For indeed her heart has changed. It is as inescapable as the seasons of the Greenwood, this new knowledge. Though she has been distracted and apprehensive today, she has not been so distracted that she has not come to the realisation that Kíli has become more precious to her than any other. The fact that she has known him but a handful of days is no matter. When she was a curious elfling, her mother told her that the day after they met, she knew her father was the one for her. It may have taken Tauriel slightly longer, but in this as in many other things, she is her mother’s daughter.

She only hopes Kíli is not like her father, who took a decade before he could be persuaded to accept her mother’s courting.

Only one way to find out, she decides.

The likelihood is that the Greenwood is already barred to her, the king not having a forgiving nature at the best of times. To openly court a dwarf may leave her shunned by much of elven society, though the Noldor of Imladris might be more accepting. But though it may leave her isolated from her people, Kíli is the choice of her heart, and she will not deny him. 

Legolas is one of the few she will miss from her old home, but she has been his friend long enough that he will accept her choice even if he cannot understand it. They will continue to be friends after, this she is certain of, whatever else may come to pass. 

She wonders how he is getting on, whether he has managed to speak to his father and convince him or whether he too is banished. The sooner she tells Mithrandir of Saruman’s treachery the better.

 

*

 

Kíli finds himself distracted throughout the day, looking around for any sight of Tauriel, though he knows himself how far she may wander in a day. The others don’t tease him today, the attack of last night having sobered them a little, but there is still conversation going on around him. He can’t pay attention to it, his thoughts occupied with his realisation of the night before. 

Tauriel is his One.

He glances again at Fíli as he thinks it, though he knows his brother has no idea that Tauriel is anything more than a passing fancy for him. But she is more, so much more, and the knowledge brings both warmth and pain to his heart. Warmth, for any thought of Tauriel makes him want to smile, to turn and see her. Pain, for though his heart may be bound to Tauriel, Tauriel's heart is not bound to him. 

When he returns to the camp with the others, the sight of Tauriel sitting there is a bittersweet pleasure. To talk to her, sit with her, sing with her but never to be loved by her, and to watch as she walks away when Gandalf returns, likely never to see her again…

He understands now why broken-hearted dwarves turn to their craft for solace. For what could live up to the memory of Tauriel? Better to think of nothing but work than to live with the agony of denial. 

Still, he is greedy, and though she may never think of him as he thinks of her, may leave him to an empty future, he will gather every memory, hoard every moment that he can. So he sits by her, asks her to teach him more of her songs.

‘With pleasure,’ she replies. ‘And I would ask...’ she hesitates, and Kíli tries to smile a smile that is more encouraging than lovelorn. 

‘What would you ask?’

Tauriel takes a breath. ‘I would ask you, if I made you a song, would you care to learn it?’

‘You would make a song for me?’ Kíli can’t conceal his pleasure at the thought. A song, from Tauriel to him? Something to keep and remember her regard, even if it is the regard of a friend rather than a lover?

‘I would be honoured if you made me a song.’ His voice is slightly choked, but Tauriel doesn’t seem to think anything amiss, smiling at him with as much pleasure as he showed her.

 

*

 

As she wanders the mountain the next day, Tauriel feels the unseen eyes on her again, but she pays them no mind, too busy with her song for Kíli.

She can feel inside herself that something has changed. There is a new awareness in her body when she looks at Kíli. Her skin tingles like starlight when she brushes against him, even through her tunic. She can feel, deep in her stomach, a tightening pull towards him. Is this what her mother spoke of? The knowing, the wanting that comes when an elf thinks of marriage? The sensations are unfamiliar but not unsettling. She feels as though she has been waiting for this, has come into her own in some indefinable way. Not more, but a new dimension. _A new kind of tree growing in a forest._

From the looks Kíli sends her when he thinks she is not looking, she thinks the feeling is mutual. 

Hunting falls by the wayside as she thinks of Kíli and the future, and it is only as the shadows begin to lengthen that she realises how far she has wandered from the camp and how little she has to show for her time. Still, she cannot find it in herself to regret the lack of meat for dinner. She makes it back to the camp before the sun sets and finds all the dwarves worried for her, even Fíli and Akhzur.   
Kíli hurries up to her. ‘Where have you been?’ His concern is writ large on his face.

Tauriel smiles down at him. ‘I was wandering your home, making your song to reflect you.’ He blushes at her words, and Tauriel loves him for it.

She turns to Gimli, proffering the herbs she picked. ‘I apologise, I was distracted today, but I offer these for flavouring.’

Gimli takes the marjoram and sweet cicely with a word of thanks, still looking concerned. Tauriel addresses the group as a whole. ‘I was wandering and not paying attention to the time. I did not mean to worry you all.’

‘Wasn’t worried,’ Akhzur grumbles, but quietly, and the rest of the dwarves seem more at ease with her words. When she takes her usual place by the fire Kíli comes to sit by her. Under the bustle of the dwarves preparing for dinner, he asks if she has seen any signs of Saruman.

‘Nothing have I seen, but as I walked there was a feeling as though invisible eyes watched me and noted where I went. I cannot believe it to be anything other than Saruman.’ And Tauriel's conscience pangs, for while she has been forgetting her cares in the company of the dwarves her people have still been under threat from the forces of Saruman. 

But at least her flight has distracted him, leading him to divert his attentions to finding her and hopefully giving her people some respite. For in truth, if she were to go back to the Greenwood in search of Mithrandir she would be captured and perhaps killed long before she could find him. She will do better to remain here, though it may seem the easier path and the path her heart wishes to take. If it were not the choice she believed to be right she would not have made it, no matter who she had met.

Kíli frowns at her words. ‘It is not safe for you to wander alone. If the orcs from the other day had found you alone, it would have been too many for you. Please, I do not doubt your skill as a warrior, but let me come with you tomorrow at least.’

Tauriel smiles at his concern for her. To think, only days ago she mistook it for dismissal of her skills as a fighter! 

‘If your brother gives you leave to join me again I would welcome your company.’ Kíli smiles in relief at her words and Tauriel turns the conversation away from fears of what may come, asking of the work on the hillside and gradually coaxing Kíli into talk of more light-hearted matters. When dinner is served, Kíli is telling her of the antics he, Fíli and Gimli used to get up to as dwarrowlings in Ered Luin. 

Tauriel laughs, and responds with a story of her and Legolas convincing visiting elves from Imladris that the meal there were being served was giant spiders, freshly caught that morning.

At the mention of Legolas, though Kíli still laughs at the story, his eyes turn sad. _He worries how my kin will receive him,_ Tauriel thinks, and is about to reassure him when something catches her attention.

A gentle breeze has been blowing all day, just stirring the heather tops and long spikes of grass, but now it drops to nothing in an instant. Over the moorland a silence falls, the rustling of small creatures and insects stilling with the ancient instincts of prey.

Tauriel stands quickly, scanning the horizon for any sign of the danger that comes. Behind her the dwarves all rise to their feet, food forgotten and hands on weapons. 

The dusk is difficult to penetrate even for elven eyes, but she can see something stirring, a broad swath of movement far far in the distance. Whatever it is is closing rapidly and though she can see the wind of its passing, no sign of the thing itself can be seen. 

‘What do you see?’ Kíli asks.

‘I do not know. Something is coming, but I cannot make out any shape,’ Tauriel replies, still watching the progress. Now it is close enough to see that the movement is the grass and heather bowing before the onslaught, a great force that leaves the stems bent and broken in its wake.

‘Should we move?’ Fíli asks, but Tauriel shakes her head.

‘It is too wide, we would not make it out of the path in time.’ It has already closed half the distance between the point where she noticed it and the point where they stand, and though she could possibly evade it the dwarves would not, and she will not leave them.

‘Saruman?’ Kíli asks quietly, and Tauriel nods.

‘I fear so,’ she murmurs back. All the dwarves have their weapons out now, and Tauriel reaches for her own knives. They may not do any good but they are a comfort none the less.

‘I can see it!’ Lutur cries, and indeed it is not far now, not far and closing so rapidly that almost before Lutur has finished speaking it is upon them, first a great rushing scream of sound and then a wind, stronger than anything natural and sharper than ice. Neither Tauriel nor the dwarves are capable of standing firm in the face of it, all of them knocked down in the first gust. It swirls round the camp, sending ash and burning sticks flying but leaving the tent untouched. The sound is everywhere, and Tauriel wishes she could cover her ears but she cannot move beneath the pressure of the air.

Then, as suddenly as it began it stops. The sound dies, the wind drops and after a cautious second the dwarves begin to move again. Tauriel sits up from where she was thrown and turns to look for Kíli. He is not far away, rubbing at his head as he looks back at her. ‘What was that?’ he asks.

Tauriel shrugs. ‘I could not say. It was not natural, but if it was the work of Saruman I cannot say it was that impressive.’ But even as she says that, she realises the noise of the insects has not returned.

A shout from Lusud distracts her. ‘Quick, the fire!’ 

The burning sticks from the firepit have landed among the heather and already smoke is starting to rise at several points. There is a great hurry to put them out before they spread, and Tauriel has no chance to think for several minutes.

When the fires are out, the dwarves gather back around the firepit. Amid the grumbling over spilled food, Lutur sniffs the air. ‘Can you smell that?’

‘What is it?’ several voices ask.

‘Smells like apples,’ Lutur replies. Tauriel sniffs the air too. At first she cannot smell anything, then suddenly she can, apples, fresh cut, as though a mound of them were right beside her. The scent is strong, growing stronger by the second. She tries to speak but the scent is everywhere, filling her mouth and throat as if it were a physical presence. She coughs, coughs again, gagging on the smell of apples. Her vision begins to narrow, the ringing in her ears drowning out the cries of the dwarves. She can feel Kíli’s hands on her as she sways, the lack of air making her head swim and her vision tunnel, and as she falls into blackness the smell of apples follows her down.


	2. Legolas and the Seven Dwarves

Gimli cries out as Tauriel sways and falls, the sound echoed by every dwarf in the group. Kíli clutches desperately at her, and the naked fear on his cousin’s face strikes at Gimli's heart.

Lutur falls to her knees beside Tauriel, reaching for her wrist to take a pulse. The entire company holds its breath, gathering round for her verdict.

‘She’s still alive,’ Lutur pronounces, and Gimli breaths a sigh of relief. Kíli doesn’t look reassured though, stroking Tauriel's face and looking desperately worried. 

‘She said she thought Saruman was watching her today,’ Kíli tells them. 

‘Whatever it is, it’s not natural,’ Lutur agrees. ‘We have to take her to to the healers. I don’t know enough yet to say what’s wrong, and if it’s magic I can’t do anything.’

‘What about _ibsêtmajd_?’ Lusud asks, and Lutur shrugs.

‘We can try, but I don’t know if it will work because I don’t know what’s wrong with her.’ Still, she fetches Tauriel’s pack, which Kíli takes from her with a glare and rifles through, bringing out the leaves. Gimli busies himself remaking the fire and sends Gêdul to fetch fresh water. 

They all watch hopefully as Lutur tips some of the _ibsêtmajd_ infused water into Tauriel's mouth, but nothing happens. Lutur shrugs. ‘I did warn you.’ Still, everyone can tell that she’s disappointed.

‘Right then, we’re taking her to the healers in the mountain. And if they can’t do anything we’ll get Gandalf, even if I have to go to Mirkwood to find him.’ Kíli's voice is determined, but Gimli can still see the fear lurking beneath.

Fíli nods his agreement to his brothers plan and sends Akhzur and Gêdul to dismantle the tent so they can use the poles for a litter. Gimli covers the fire with sods of turf and the others begin to gather up their packs. In a short space of time they are prepared to leave, Tauriel on a litter made of tent poles and blankets. Lutur is looking grim and Kíli full of despair; Tauriel's breathing is growing slowly shallower.

It is a mile or two to reach the south entrance from the camp, and there is a spur of rock to negotiate round as well. The going is uneven and treacherous in the dusk, and they have to be careful of their footing despite their haste. Gimli thinks Kíli would gladly banish any who drop Tauriel. 

As they reach the end of the outcrop and are about to turn along the south face, Akhzur calls out. ‘I see two figures approaching from the west!’

Gimli looks up from where he was concentrating on his footing. Barely visible in the growing dark, the figures look to be heading for the south entrance to the mountain and are about a mile away from where the dwarves are standing. 

‘Could it be Gandalf?’ Lusud sounds unsure. 

‘It could be Saruman come to drag Tauriel back to Dol Guldur,’ Akhzur responds flatly.

‘Should we wait here or go on to the entrance?’ Gêdul asks.

‘Wait here. We can’t make it to the entrance before they do, and if we remain here we can see who it is without them seeing us.’ Fíli’s voice is certain, and though both Kíli and Lutur glance worriedly at Tauriel, no one protests.

‘Can we at least put her down?’ Gimli asks. Though Kíli looks torn, he nods his agreement and he, Gimli, Lutur and Gêdul lay the litter down as carefully as they can.

Gimli stretches his neck. Elf though Tauriel may be, she still has weight to her, and looking down constantly to make sure he does not step wrong in the dark is tiring. 

They wait, minutes ticking by as the figures grow slowly closer. Akhzur, who has the sharpest eyes, eventually calls out. ‘One is Gandalf, but I don’t recognise the other.’ He looks to Fíli. ‘What do you want to do?’

Fíli makes a face. ‘Two of us will go down and ask after the stranger. If we do not signal all clear, do not wait for us but get to the entrance unseen whichever way you can. If it is a friend with Gandalf, wait and we will bring them to you. But go back in the meantime and find a place among the rocks to wait.’ He nods at Gimli. ‘You and I will go.’

Gimli nods and lays down his pack, freeing his axe and attaching it to his belt. If the stranger is not friendly, best be prepared. He and Fíli leave the others to take the litter back among the rocks, and make their way out towards Gandalf and the stranger. 

When Gandalf sees them he changes his course, heading towards them instead of the south entrance. Fíli and Gimli walk closer, intending to keep them away from Tauriel and the others as long as possible.

‘Fíli! I did not expect to find you on this side of the mountain. Has Thorin forgiven you already?’ Though Gandalf’s voice is cheerful, Gimli can see lines of worry on his face.

‘Just a supply run,’ Fíli claims offhandedly. ‘Who do you bring with you?’ Both he and Gimli eye the stranger.

_Another elf,_ Gimli thinks resignedly. Has King Thranduil send someone to find Tauriel? If so, Gimli doubts they will meet any warmer reception than an emissary of Saruman would.

‘This is Legolas of Mirkwood.’ The elf shoots Gandalf a look at his words, and Gimli thinks of how Tauriel refers to it as the Greenwood. Mirkwood is a more apt description in Gimli’s mind. ‘He comes in search of a missing kinswoman of his.’

‘Oh aye?’ Fíli's tone is uninterested. ‘What makes him think we would have an elf around here?’ 

The elf glares at him. ‘Tauriel could hide on your mountain for a decade without any dwarf seeing her. I will find her, for I know her ways.’

Legolas. Now Gimli remembers the name, remembers Tauriel telling stories of the two of them. Kíli will not be happy to have him show up but there is nothing Gimli can do. 

‘And what would you do with her once you found her?’ Gimli tries to sound merely curious, but he does not need Fíli’s glare to know that he came off more defensive.

The elf turns his glare to Gimli. ‘That is no concern of yours, dwarf!’ Gimli feels his hands itching for his axe at the elf’s dismissive tone.

‘Legolas, peace.’ Gandalf’s words are not loud but the elf subsides, looking abashed. Gandalf turns to Gimli. ‘She has news for me, and there is one who would wish her not to tell it. We look for her to aid her only.’

Fíli and Gimli share a long look. Fíli speaks. ‘She’s in the rocks, over there, with the rest of our group. But she can’t give you any news; Saruman has worked some magic and she is stricken by it. We came to find you, Gandalf, but we did not know who you brought with you. Come quickly, she is falling deeper into the spell.’

At Fíli’s words the elf gives a cry and starts forward, running swiftly to the outcropping. Knowing how he will be received by the group, Gimli starts after him whilst Fíli gives the all clear signal. But the elf is fast and by the time Gimli reaches the rocks the dwarves are waiting in, the sound of angry voices can clearly be heard.

‘Who are you! Keep away from her!’ Kíli’s voice is fierce, and as they come into view Gimli sees him standing with sword in hand at the front of the group, the others arrayed in a semi-circle around Tauriel’s litter. 

‘Wait! He is Legolas, he comes with Gandalf to help!’ At Gimli’s words the dwarves hesitate, and Legolas takes the opportunity to dart around them to reach Tauriel. He sinks down beside her, and for the first time Gimli sees something other than cold dislike on his face, fear written there as clearly as it is on Kíli. 

Gimli turns to Kíli. ‘Gandalf comes, he knows of Tauriel's peril and will help.’ Kíli nods, darting an unhappy glance at Legolas as he does.

Gandalf and Fíli are only a minute or two behind them. The dwarves all part to let him through, Kíli going back to his place by Tauriel's side, trying to avoid looking at where Legolas holds Tauriel's hand. Gimli feels for his cousin. Though no word has passed Kíli’s lips, everyone recognises that she is his One, and Gimli cannot imagine how hard it must be to see his One with someone else.

Gandalf stands after a minute. ‘I cannot lift this magic alone, it has too many parts to it and fights back. I can only hold it for a while; I would need another to assist in the breaking of it.’

Legolas and Kíli both look at Gandalf, anguish in their eyes. ‘Is there nothing you can do?’ Legolas’s voice matches his face.

Gandalf turns to him. ‘I can delay it for a while, and there is one whom I can call upon to help lift it completely. The Lady Galadriel.’ And Gimli sees relief in Legolas’s eyes, and feels it himself. 

‘I will go to her and take Tauriel,’ Legolas cries, springing up, but Gandalf shakes his head. 

‘No, it is not safe. Saruman still searches for her and you, and if you go near Dol Guldur, as you must to reach Lothlórien, you will both be captured. I will go, and you must stay here to guard her.’

Legolas looks torn, but nods. ‘Very well. I shall take her to Laketown and await you there.’

Gandalf shakes his head again. ‘No, there are too many there who could be persuaded to betray you to Saruman. Dwarves are less susceptible to his voice and wiles. Stay with them; they care for Tauriel and will help you protect her.’ Legolas looks as though he will protest, but Gandalf’s stern look causes him to subside.

‘Should we take her inside the mountain?’ Kíli doesn’t sound too pleased to have Legolas assigned to care for Tauriel, but Gimli knows it is right. Kíli must know too, deep down.

‘No.’ Gandalf is certain. ‘The fewer who know where you are and that Tauriel still lives the better. Too many unwary tongues will complain long and loud about elves in the mountain. I will put Tauriel under a glamour to appear as dead should Saruman look for her, but too much scrutiny could give the ruse away, and he may send a fiercer working against her.’

Gimli can see the sense of the wizard’s decision, but he would still prefer the security of having his kin within calling distance. Still, he knows of the general feeling dwarves have towards elves, and he cannot imagine they would refrain from complaining to friends in Dale or Laketown about playing host to Thranduil’s heir at Gandalf’s request.

Nobody argues with Gandalf, and he sets too with his glamour for Tauriel. When he finishes, she lies still and cold, no breath passing her lips, the only indication that she still lives a faint, slow pulse at her wrists. Kíli looks at her with pain in his eyes and Gimli is thankful once more that he has not found a One to break his heart. 

Gandalf takes his leave swiftly, promising to be back as soon as possible with this Galadriel. ‘Well then, suppose we’d better get back to the camp,’ Fíli says, and they take up the litter once more, heading back to the buried west entrance. 

It is full dark before they make the campsite, and there is a delay as they reassemble the tent and relight the fire. By the time Gimli has finished cooking a hasty meal, which the elf declines, preferring waybread instead, the moon has risen and is well on its way across the sky. It’s Gimli’s turn to have first watch, and as the other dwarves retreat inside the tent he pokes at the fire, watching covertly as the light reflects in Legolas’s eyes.

The elf sits opposite him, having refused both the offer of sharing the tent and to allow Tauriel to be laid inside it, claiming that she would prefer to remain outside. Nobody tells him she shared the tent on previous nights.

In an attempt to make Legolas feel more welcome as a friend of Tauriel’s, Gimli tries to start a conversation. ‘So, elf, who is this Galadriel Gandalf goes to fetch? Is she especially skilled in the magical arts?’ 

In the flickering light and shadows, it is difficult to read Legolas’s expression, but his tone carries his meaning well. ‘She is one of the greatest of us, skilled in healing and magic far beyond the ken of one such as you. She is everything good and bright, and you are hardly fit to ask questions of her. And I am Legolas Thrandulion, Prince of the Greenwood, not ‘elf’.’ He subsides again.

Gimli growls. ‘Very well then, Prince Greenwood, I’ll not trouble you again.’ 

The watch passes slowly.

 

*

 

Legolas cannot remember ever being this weary or worried in all his time on Middle Earth. First there was the battle against the orcs, then the hunt with Tauriel to Dol Guldur and flight back from the same. Before he had even reached home he was obliged to go hunting spiders, where little rest could be had. When he finally returned to the halls of his father it was to learn that Tauriel had been branded a traitor to the king and banished from the Greenwood, and none he asked could tell him her direction. His father would not listen to him when he tried to tell him of Saruman and the orcs in Dol Guldur, and it was only his discovery of Tauriel's letter telling him of her plan that stopped him from pushing his father too far and being banished as well. 

The arrival of Mithrandir should have helped his cause, but his father was too enamoured of his new ambassador to listen, spending many hours in conversation with this Wormtongue. But his father’s absence and refusal to hold council with Mithrandir allowed Legolas to speak to him without censure, and when Thranduil still would not hear any word against Saruman, Legolas and Mithrandir were free to leave and seek Tauriel. Tracking her back and forth across the Greenwood and seeing the marks of Wargs following her made him nearly sick with fear, and travelling at Mithrandir’s slower pace kept him too anxious to sleep.

And now they have found her, but too late and in company Legolas is not sure of. The dwarven reputation for greed should surely make them more susceptible to promises of gold from Saruman, but Mithrandir before he left took Legolas aside and told him to trust them, that their stubbornness and resistance to evil influence far outstrips that of other races. 

He glances at Tauriel, lying in a bedroll beside him on the grass. She looks dead, and he can’t resist letting his fingers creep over to pull her arm from beneath the blanket and check once more for a pulse. The slow, steady beat reassures him, faint though it is, but he still hopes Mithrandir returns soon. He would rather have his friend standing beside him to fight this than lying bewitched to hide from it. 

Across from him, the dwarf stands, putting away his pipe and stretching. He leaves without speaking to Legolas, and Legolas regrets his hasty and proud words of earlier, can blame nothing but fear. If Mithrandir could not remove this curse alone, if Galadriel, despite all her reputation cannot either, then he will be left without his beloved friend.

As another dwarf emerges from the tent Legolas lies down beside Tauriel, hoping that his fears will not come to pass, that he will not be left alone. 

Despite his best efforts, he cannot stop himself dwelling on it.

 

*

 

It is Lutur’s turn to make breakfast this morning but Gimli takes over, not in the mood to be eating lumpy, half burned porridge. They have plenty of salt still, but even so he misses Tauriel's offerings of berries to sweeten the pot.

While the others dress and wash Gimli tends to the food, stirring to ensure it doesn’t stick and burn. The elf woke from his reverie when Lutur lit the fire and Gimli watched him look around uncertainly as the dwarves went about their business. Now he sits across from Gimli in the same spot he occupied last night, and Gimli tries his best to ignore him as the elf darts him glances, not wanting his mood soured more.

‘Dwarf.’ The elf speaks, and Gimli scowls at him.

‘My name is Gimli, son of Glóin, not ‘dwarf,’ he says, echoing the words of the elf from the night before.

‘Gimli, then.’ The elf sounds uncertain and Gimli risks a glance at him, finding him looking much less haughty this morning. ‘I did not know your name to address you properly. I wish to apologise for my words last night, and I would plead worry and exhaustion as an explanation. To find Tauriel already lost when I have searched and feared for her almost since we parted, it overcame my manners. Please forgive me.’ The elf sounds truly penitent, and Gimli feels his bad mood lifting a little.

‘It is forgiven, Prince Greenwood,’ Gimli nods, and after a second, Legolas nods back. Gimli sees the look he gives Tauriel beside him, and relents a little more. ‘We’re all worried for her, lad. She appeared from out of nowhere, helped us fight orcs and has shared out campfire for the best part of a week. Though it may not seem like much, she has been a good friend to all of us in that short time.’ He won’t mention Kíli, for both their sakes. 

Legolas looks thoughtful, and Gimli leaves him to it, beginning to dish out the porridge as the dwarves come and sit. He hesitates before serving himself, then looks to Legolas. ‘Would you care for some porridge, or are you like Tauriel and find it too heavy?’

Legolas shakes his head, smiling a little. ‘No, I would like some porridge if you have enough to spare. Tauriel has never been enthusiastic about it, no matter how much honey she put in it.’

Gimli shrugs. ‘We have enough to spare, though I cannot offer you honey. We have salt, and Tauriel found strawberries, but there are none left of them.’ He hands Legolas a portion in his own bowl, pulling the pan closer to eat his portion out of. 

Legolas looks askance at him but doesn’t say anything other than to ask for the salt. 

 

*

 

The dwarves leave not long after breakfast and Legolas is alone in the camp. Well, alone apart from Tauriel, but she is hardly talkative company at the moment. 

Never the less, as the morning wears on he finds himself talking to her. ‘I did not expect to find you so friendly with dwarves, especially not seven of them, when you have always been so solitary.’ He sighs. ‘I fear I did not make a good impression at first, but he seems to have forgiven me. He even gave me his bowl to eat from, though I did not realise at the time.’ Indeed, he had though Gimli most uncouth, eating from the pan with the cook-spoon. It was only when the beardless dwarf who’s name he does not know came back with the clean dishes that he realised that they would not have brought extra bowls to be used by guests. 

‘They have been friends to you, so I suppose I should try to get along with them.’ He pauses. ‘ _Ada_ would be horrified to think of either of us befriending dwarves.’ _But then, Ada used to be horrified at the thought of orcs killing elves, and now he seems to accept it._

He pushes away the stray thought, returning determinedly to his present situation. He can hear in the distance the sound of metal on stone and boulders moving against one another. He wonders what they are doing out here, and whether they are alert enough that he can slip into reverie for a while without any harm coming to Tauriel. 

He also wonders what Tauriel did while the dwarves worked; she has never been one to sit idly and sing, and he cannot imagine her passively darning dwarven socks. 

Fatigue is still nagging at the edges of his consciousness, the long days with little rest not shaken off in a single night. But he doesn’t feel he can rest, not yet. Tauriel is too vulnerable, the dwarves too far away. Tonight, when the camp is full again, then he can rest. For all that he is uncertain of them, he does not think they would allow any harm to come to Tauriel.

He begins to sing the song of the mallorn trees of Lothlórien. It has long been one of Tauriel's favourite songs, and perhaps somewhere beneath the enchantment she might be able to hear it and take comfort. 

 

*

 

The group makes a unanimous if unspoken decision to finish early for the day, and Kíli hurries ahead of the rest to make it back to camp. Gimli doesn’t think anyone believes any more that Kíli feels nothing but friendship for Tauriel, but nobody says anything. It would be too cruel to bring it up.

Legolas doesn’t seem to have moved from Tauriel's side all day. Gimli frowns and goes to stand beside Fíli. ‘If Saruman were to look for Tauriel, do you not think he might wonder to see her guarded and unburied in death?’

Fíli frowns too. ‘Aye, I had not thought of that. But we can’t bury her, and I can’t see Kíli or Prince Greenwood being keen on leaving her alone.’

Gimli grunts in agreement. ‘Can’t take her with us either, would look too odd.’

‘We could cover her with the blanket and set a watch from near where we’re working?’ Fíli sounds dubious, but Legolas breaks in.

‘If you would permit me to stay near your workings, I can keep a watch from there with ease.’

Fíli looks at him and shrugs. ‘If you’re comfortable with that, it would work.’

Legolas nods. ‘Elves can see much further and I would spot any who approach long before they could do Tauriel harm.’

Fíli nods. ‘Fine then, we will go with that. Tomorrow you will join us for the day.’

_Great,_ Gimli thinks. _No break from him at all._

 

*

 

From where the dwarves are working Legolas cannot see the camp, so he sits instead on a rock outcrop not far away. From here he can see the dark line that denotes the edge of the Greenwood, though he cannot make out anything more than that.

The wind in his face is refreshing and after a full night’s reverie he feels much more alert. The dwarves talk among themselves, working a little way behind him, and he sings quietly to himself in order not to eavesdrop. 

Legolas refuses to show how startled he is when one of the dwarves appears beside him. Too lost in his wandering thoughts, he missed the footsteps as Gimli approached.

‘Here, elf.’ A waterskin is held out and Legolas takes it with a word of thanks, deciding not to take issue with the address. Beside him, Gimli stares out over the land towards the Greenwood. ‘How far can you see?’

Legolas swallows his mouthful of water. ‘To the Greenwood, but I cannot see with clarity the whole way.’

Gimli hums. ‘You will see any who approach with no problem then.’ Legolas just nods, this being the reason he sits here. 

Gimli stands beside him silently for a while longer before he huffs and turns to go. ‘Keep the waterskin, elf, we have enough to go round.’ He walks off before Legolas can thank him, and Legolas goes back to gazing out over the land, taking another drink as he does.

 

*

 

By the end of the day, Legolas is stiff from sitting in one place on hard rocks and his eyes are dry from the strain and the wind. The camp has not been disturbed, Tauriel still safe, and Legolas combs and re-braids her hair and washes her face while the dwarves prepare food. It is not until he is finished that he realises all have turned away while he attends to Tauriel. He comes to sit by the fire, and Gimli glances up at him. ‘You could have used the tent, it would have been no trouble.’

Legolas frowns. ‘I was not going to do anything more, it would not be right.’

Gimli looks at him strangely. ‘She would not mind you braiding her hair where any could see?’

Legolas is confused. ‘No, why should she? There is no reason for her to hide it.’

Gimli looks a little uncomfortable to Legolas’s eyes. ‘A dwarf would not show unbound hair to another, unless they are family or betrothed.’ He darts a glance at the unbearded dwarf, the one Legolas thinks is called Kíli. ‘If you would not object, next time use the tent.’

His tone is not discourteous so Legolas nods. ‘If it will bring you peace, I have no objection.’ 

Gimli gives him a slight bow of the head. ‘My thanks.’

_How strange are dwarven customs,_ Legolas muses.

 

*

 

_Elves are odd creatures,_ Gimli can’t help but think. _Combing and braiding where anyone could see!_ Still, the elf has been reasonable over his request. Gimli is definitely feeling better disposed towards him today. Much less condescending in his manner, and not as haughty as Gimli would have imagined an elven prince to be. And good manners deserve to be returned.

‘Would you care for some stew tonight? There is plenty to go round.’ _Even if it’s not as good as when Tauriel was hunting and gathering._

The elf hesitates. ‘I would like that, but I would not deprive you of your bowl this time. Have you a cup or something I could use?’

Gimli nods. ‘Aye, we’ve a mug. It works alright for stew, but porridge is a different beast.’ Legolas grins at this, and Gimli thinks it’s the first time he’s seen his face look carefree, without hint of worry. 

_He looks better for it._

Gimli pushes the thought away, focusing on the stew. ‘Do all elves travel with nothing but waybread and apples?’ he asks. ‘Tauriel did not bring any cooking equipment or dishes either.’

Legolas nods. ‘ _Lembas_ will keep you going for much longer than any other food, and a little lasts a long while. It is much easier to carry than bulky pans and supplies.’

Gimli nods thoughtfully. ‘Suppose it makes sense, elves having good rations when you all journey so much.’

Legolas shakes his head. ‘No, it is not so. Many elves do not leave the woods they are born in, unless they travel beyond the sea. We tend to keep to one place and only leave if we ride to battle.’ Something indecipherable flickers across his face. ‘Even then, we often wait for the battle to come to us.’ His last words are low, and Gimli can only just make them out. 

Gimli shakes his head. ‘And here I thought elves were great adventurers, travelling all across Middle Earth.’

Legolas looks into the fire. ‘Not many feel the desire. I would like to see other lands, but the urge is not strong. The Greenwood is vast and varied, ever changing. Whenever I think I would like to leave for a while I think to wait until the current season finishes, not wanting to miss it, and then the joy of the next season fills me and I would not miss that either. Indeed, this is the first time I have left my home for any reason other than journeying to other elvenhomes.’

Gimli shakes his head again. ‘Great though your forest may be, there are other sights to enjoy. The sharp edge of high snow-capped mountains on a summers’ day, the blaze of a sunset above a plain where the sky goes on forever, the force of a gale slapping rain and seawater against rock. I have not journeyed far in my time but the sights I have seen will stay with me always.’

Legolas gazes at him. ‘From where did you journey to see these sights? I must confess, your words do strengthen my wish to travel.’

Gimli makes a noise of agreement. ‘From Ered Luin, the Blue Mountains where I spent my childhood, to the Lonely Mountain was my journey. The Blue Mountains edge the sea and reach almost to the sky and the highest of them stay snow covered year round. And my family travelled to the north of the mountains once, towards the Icebay of Forochel, where my mother’s kin make their homes.’

Legolas looks away. ‘I find myself almost ashamed, that I have lived so many more years than you and yet cannot claim to have seen half as much of Middle Earth. If my home were not in danger I might take this time to travel, having left already my father’s halls. Alas for the growing darkness! I cannot in good conscience leave my home for pleasure alone. And so it shall once more be ‘one day’ that I plan for.’

Gimli nods. ‘Aye, to leave when your woods are under threat would not be the act of a good prince. The curse of responsibility.’

Legolas nods in agreement, though he looks troubled, and they both fall silent. The smell of the stew begins to make it’s presence felt, and it draws the others to the campfire. Before long Gimli is dishing it out, Legolas accepting his mug with a murmur of gratitude. He makes no complaints about the taste and eats steadily, if not with the gusto of dwarves. Gimli doesn’t mind. If he’d been asked previously he would have imagined elves to be fussy eaters, happy to leave food to waste, but the two he has so far met have disabused him of this thought.

They don’t speak for the rest of the evening, Legolas taking himself off to sit with Tauriel upwind of the fire once the pipes are brought out after dinner. He seems content to sit and gaze at the stars, though out of the corner of his eye Gimli sees his lips move every so often. _Singing probably,_ he thinks with amusement. Still, if it keeps him happy and not combing in full view of everyone, no harm done.

Gimli catches sight of Kíli, sitting hunched over two places down from him. His cousin hasn’t stopped looking miserable since Legolas arrived, and glancing once more at the two elves, Gimli decides to make an effort to engage Legolas in conversation and keep him away from Kíli. It will just be until Gandalf returns, and it won’t do Gimli any harm. Even though he is still a little annoyed about being dragged into the prince’s prank and being sent out here, he loves his cousin, and it would help him if Gimli kept the elf occupied. 

Decision made, Gimli sinks into smoking, mulling over how best to keep the elf from inadvertently tormenting his cousin.

But his thoughts drift to other considerations. For all that elves have no beards, Gimli thinks, there is still much to recommend them. Take Tauriel for example. Fine warrior, good hunter, not one to shun a dwarf in friendship. She would be a good choice for Kíli, if she was not an elf. And not already spoken for.

Legolas is a different cart of ore. He too may be a good fighter and a decent hunter, if Tauriel’s stories are to be believed. He’s also stronger than he looks, hardy despite his odd, long limbs. From what little Gimli heard earlier, he can sing better than Tauriel too, not that Gimli will ever say as much to Kíli. And he has nice hair. But his attitude is much less friendly, much more like an elven prince. Though he seems to be trying to do better. 

And Gimli is not his cousin, to fall hard and hopelessly for an elf, no matter how unexpectedly pretty he may be. So if he keeps the elven prince occupied himself, there will be no harm in it. 

 

*

 

Legolas sleeps outside again but is nowhere to be seen when Gimli emerges from the tent in the morning. It is Akhzur’s turn to make the breakfast, and Gimli is sufficiently confident in his cooking ability to wander away from the fire, stretching his legs in an attempt to wake himself properly. He rubs at his face, turning towards the stream for a wash, and when he drops his hands he’s greeted by the sight of the elf, bent over at the waist, legs stretched back and arms forward so his resting body makes a triangle. 

Gimli blinks in surprise. ‘Lost something, elf?’

Legolas stays in position for a beat or two longer, not answering Gimli, before he brings one leg forward, twists his body, and in one flowing move is standing, legs shoulder width apart, hands together in front of him. ‘Nay, I have not lost anything. I am making a salute to the sun.’

Gimli looks dubiously to where the first rays have just begun to creep over the horizon and dispel the grey dawn. ‘I don’t think the sun is quite awake enough for your salute just yet.’

Legolas laughs. ‘It is a name more than a salutation in truth. Stretches to keep the muscles from seizing and wasting during periods of forced inactivity.’

Gimli shrugs. ‘If you say so, elf. Will it disturb you if I have a wash here?’

Legolas comes out of his stance, pulling up to his full height. ‘Nay, it would not trouble me, but would you not wish me to leave so you may wash and comb in privacy?’

Gimli shakes his head. ‘I would not comb out here, and washing is not so private. Continue your salutation if you wish.’ He doesn’t wait for a reply, going straight to the water and beginning to remove his outer layers, fairly certain the elf will either ignore him or leave.

 

*

 

Legolas fully intends to finish his stretching and salutation. In a minute or so. But his curiosity is stirred when Gimli begins to shed his clothes. Legolas has seen elves unclothed many a time, and even Men on occasion. Surely dwarves will not be different? There will be nothing much to note. Still, Gimli did not seem concerned at the idea of Legolas watching, so if he takes a minute to breath between poses and happens to glance in the dwarf’s direction as he does, what of it?

With his surcoat and mail removed, Gimli looks no different to any other being. Stockier, more heavily built of course, but other than his compact frame no obvious differences.

When he removes his tunic however, Legolas cannot stifle his gasp. ‘Gimli! You are injured!’

Immediately he feels foolish. Gimli has turned to look at him, his expression confused, and now with more than a second to think, Legolas can see the marks he took to be injury are too even and geometric for that. Decoration then, but not of a kind Legolas has seen before. 

Gimli follows Legolas’s gaze then laughs. ‘No, lad, not injury. Ink. Pushed beneath the skin with a needle.’

Legolas winces at the thought. ‘But why?’ He knows he sounds like a confused elfling with his question, but the idea seems so uncomfortable.

Gimli shrugs, heavily muscled and marked shoulders moving casually. ‘Many reasons. They tell of my family, my history, my craft and my training. Do elves not have similar displays?’ Legolas nods wordlessly, eyes still fixed on the marks. ‘Similar but not the same,’ Gimli guesses. He turns back to the stream and Legolas pulls his eyes away, looking to the ground.

‘We show it in the fletching of our arrows, the braids in our hair, the clasp on our cloaks.’ He cannot imagine putting something so unchangeable on his body. 

Gimli grunts. ‘Not so similar, but not so different as all that. Dwarves too have those signs, but we have our tattoos as well.’ He begins to wash, and Legolas takes his distraction as an opportunity to leave.

 

*

 

With little to do all day but scan the horizon, Legolas finds his thoughts returning to Gimli more than he would like. _It is simple curiosity,_ he tells himself. _Harmless._ But he does fear that once again he has been rude, and pledges to make up for it.

Gimli is busy cooking again when they return to the camp, and Legolas first tends to Tauriel before joining him. 

‘Gimli, I fear I insulted you without intent this morning and I would beg forgiveness from you again.’

Gimli does not look up from where he is chopping some sort of root vegetable. ‘No harm done, elf. Your ways are strange to me, mine are strange to you. It is the nature of things that there will be misunderstandings between two races who have long been at odds. I would say we have made good progress so far by spending any time not being shocked or insulted.’ He glances sideways at Legolas, and Legolas catches a hit of a grin on his face. He relaxes; Gimli is not upset. This is good; the other dwarves seem less willing to speak to him, and it would be a long and lonely silence until Mithrandir returned should Gimli choose to do the same. 

‘Can I help with any of the preparations?’ Legolas offers.

‘No, I’m fine, thank you.’ Gimli chops swiftly and accurately, throwing pieces into the sizzling pot every so often. 

‘Do you cook every night?’ Legolas asks curiously, and Gimli barks a laugh. 

‘Aye, you would not want to eat what some of the others would make. Akhzur and Fíli are not so bad, but Lusud and Lutur can both burn water, and Gêdul would take three times as long to do anything from lack of practise.’

‘And Kíli?’

Gimli’s face turns impassive, and he focuses on his chopping. ‘Kíli can cook, but not as well as I.’ He says nothing more and Legolas leaves the topic. 

He watches the dwarves around the camp, some sitting by the fire doing small chores or sharpening weapons, two taking aired bedding back into the tent, one bringing out firewood. Legolas asks idly about where the wood comes from, having noted in his initial approach to the mountain how few trees grace the slopes. Gimli looks suspicious, but obviously finds no hidden meaning in the question and tells him of the trade deal they have with the Men of Laketown. Emboldened by the continuation of their earlier friendly interaction, Legolas asks about a few other things he has wondered about, and as Gimli answers willingly enough they while away the time until dinner pleasantly.

After dinner, encouraged by Lusud and Fíli, Gêdul begins to tell a story about something an aunt of his did that involved an unwanted suitor and a mountain goat, and though Legolas misses the finer points of the story, relying as it does on a knowledge of dwarven custom that he lacks, it is still an amusing tale. After that Lutur tells of some of the things she has seen as an apprentice healer, and Akhzur is persuaded to relate the story of his older brother’s coming of age celebration, obviously a story heard before but one that still elicits laughter from the group. The evening draws on, the dwarves taking turns to tell stories, and for the first time since he and Tauriel separated after Dol Guldur, Legolas doesn’t feel the empty sensation of being without true companions. There is not the same depth of understanding between them, but every time Gimli leans over to explain a point of dwarven custom or clarify the family relationships in a story, it sends a glow of warmth through Legolas. And when the evening shifts into true night and the dwarves begin to make ready to sleep, Legolas keeps Gimli company on first watch, sometimes talking a little, sometimes silent, but never uncomfortable.

 

*

 

The morning brings a heavy dew, and Legolas almost regrets sleeping outside. Elf he may be, hardly noticing heat or cold, but clammy clothing is hard to ignore no matter what. But the prospect of a stuffy tent is still less appealing so he will make do. He does his stretches away from the stream, not willing to intrude on Gimli’s bathing again. He pushes away the thought of Gimli bathing. _Now is not the time for curiosity!_ He forces his mind back onto his salute.

The day progresses much like the day before. The heavy dew burns off with the clear and sunny day, his clothes drying quickly, and sitting out in the warmth surrounded by the smell of the heather and with the sound of the dwarves working as a background murmur, Legolas finds it difficult to keep his attention from wandering. Spending days on the open mountain is very different from the cool shade beneath the trees of the Greenwood, but the change is not unwelcome. He had not realised how oppressive his home has become until he was forced to leave. The new freedom would be truly joyous if it were not for the thought of his father and people, living under the threat of Saruman and his orcs.

Thinking of this, Legolas is infused with a restless, helpless, miserable energy. He wishes he could do something, anything, but if he returns now at best he will be confined to his rooms and forbidden to leave or speak to anyone for disobeying his father and at worst he will be sent to Saruman and likely killed. He can do nothing at the moment. Still, he cannot sit still, rising and climbing a little way up the hill, ostensibly to see better but in reality simply to move.

Gimli joins him a minute later. ‘What do you see?’ he asks, concern obvious in his voice. Legolas feels a twinge of remorse.

‘Nothing, I do not see anything. I simply needed to move.’

Gimli relaxes and stops scanning the horizon. ‘Stretches not enough for you after all?’

Legolas tosses his head. ‘The salute works well, but I am restless from more than stiff muscles. It feels wrong to sit in relative safety while my kin battle almost daily.’

Gimli looks at him and Legolas thinks there is understanding in his eyes, a thought that is bourne out with Gimli’s words. ‘Aye, I know that feeling in part. When my kin came to retake the Lonely Mountain, I was deemed too young to go. Watching others go into danger while you remain safe, never knowing if you will see them again, is a hard thing to do.’ Legolas nods, not feeling the need to speak. Gimli grunts. ‘You did your part laddie, you told the king of Saruman’s dealings with the orcs, and you can do no more. There is no point rushing to your death for the sake of feeling as though you are doing something.’

Legolas sighs. ‘In my head I know this, but my heart cries out to act. But I can do no good at the moment, so I will stay and guard Tauriel as I promised Mithrandir.’

Gimli nods. ‘Best thing to do for the moment.’ They stand in silence for a little while before Gimli heaves a sigh. ‘Better get back to it, can’t hang around all day.’ He turns to leave but Legolas, still filled with restless energy, calls for him to wait.

‘Might I be able to assist? In truth, I cannot take another day sitting with nothing to do but keep watch.’

Gimli looks at him assessingly, then shrugs. ‘If you wish. Another pair of hands will not hurt.’ He looks down, and Legolas follows his gaze to his shoes. Compared to the dwarves’ thick books, Legolas might be wearing little more than socks. Gimli grunts. ‘Might not be such a good idea. If you drop something on your foot you’ll crush it.’

Legolas feels a surge of desperate frustration at the though of being forbidden this outlet for his energy, but he does not let it show, instead arching his eyebrows in disdainful haughtiness. ‘Elves do not drop things on their feet. We are graceful and strong, not weak and clumsy, no matter what dwarves may think of us.’

Gimli looks annoyed and sceptical, but shrugs in the end. ‘On your head be it, Prince Greenwood. Or foot, as it may be.’ He turns back down the mountain and Legolas follows, determined not to drop a single pebble. 

 

*

 

By the time they call a halt for the day Gimli has to admit he’s impressed by the elf’s stamina. Not once has he complained or paused other than to scan the horizon. Elven prince as he is, Gimli would have expected him to give up after an hour at most, but he kept going long after that. As the dwarves pack up their tools for the return to camp, Gimli makes his way over to the elf. ‘I’m impressed. Not a crushed toe to be seen.’ 

The elf looks down his nose at Gimli, not difficult from that absurd height. ‘I am an elf. We are graceful.’ He keeps up the expression for a moment longer, but before Gimli can grow annoyed the elf breaks into a grin. ‘Besides, I could not let myself be proved a liar.’

Gimli laughs at his playful tone. ‘Very well, Prince Greenwood. I concede that elves are graceful creatures who do not drop stones on their feet. Will you now come back to camp for a celebratory feast in honour of your undamaged toes?’ Legolas laughs and follows Gimli down the mountainside. 

‘I expect a feast fit for a prince,’ he grins, and Gimli shakes his head and snorts in amusement.

‘I think you might be disappointed there.’

The elf carries his share of tools down the slope, and at the camp Gimli takes them to put them away. As he does, he catches sight of Legolas’s hands. The palms are red, scraped raw against the harsh rock, and the pads of his hands have blisters from the unaccustomed tools.

Gimli grabs at them, holding tight when Legolas would have pulled away. ‘Ach, laddie, why did you not say? You shouldn't let your hands stay like this!’ 

Legolas shrugs, looking a little embarrassed. ‘I did not want to complain. I will heal.’ 

Gimli shakes his head. ‘You are not used to this kind of work, there is no shame in that. But it is not a good idea to leave this sort of thing unattended. Go to Lutur and get her to bind them up.’ Legolas makes to protest, and Gimli gives him a firm look. ‘Go on, do it, I don’t care how quickly you heal, you should still have it seen to.’ He releases Legolas’s hands and gives him a push. Legolas rolls his eyes but complies and Gimli finishes putting the tools away before beginning dinner. From where he is working, he half watches as Lutur scolds Legolas for not looking after himself then chivvies him down to the stream to wash his hands and have them bound. By the time they return, dinner is almost ready.

 

*

 

When Legolas finally escapes from Lutur’s scolding, he takes refuge beside Gimli. Gimli passes him a mug of stew, careful of his bandaged hands. ‘There you are, your celebratory meal.’ 

Legolas laughs and thanks him. Though he tries not to let it show, he cannot stop his nose from wrinkling a little at being presented with stew again; the monotonous palate is not what he is used to and he fears he does not conceal it well enough. Thankfully, Gimli laughs rather than taking offence. ‘It may not be the nicest, but you should not complain. If we were in the Grey Mountains we would have _khufshkarâl_ for rations, and that I think would be far too much for you, Prince Greenwood, and not nearly celebratory enough.’

‘What is _khufshkarâl?_ ’ Legolas’s tongue cannot navigate the unfamiliar word. 

‘It is a sausage made of bat meat,’ Fíli supplies, and he and Gimli both laugh at Legolas’s horrified expression.

After a moment, Legolas joins in their laughter. ‘Stew does not seem so bad, suddenly.’

Gimli grins at him. ‘Some time I will cook for you when there is food other than dried meat and long-stored vegetables. You have not had proper dwarven cooking yet, only camp rations, and the difference will astonish you.’

‘Gimli is a very good cook. He will keep an excellent home for some lucky dwarrow or dwarrowdam one day,’ Fíli puts in, smiling slyly at his cousin and Gimli swats at him, looking jointly embarrassed, pleased and annoyed.

Legolas joins in Fíli’s laughter and ignores the strange feeling in his chest. _Indigestion from too much stew._

They eat companionably, Legolas thankful that he can drink from the mug rather than attempting to navigate a spoon with his bandages. They are unnecessary, his hands already feel better, but Gimli shoots him warning look whenever he tugs at them so he leaves them be for the moment.

After the washing up has been done and the dwarves’ pipes lit, the talk turns to future plans, both in the short term and the long term. ‘A hot bath,’ Lusud rhapsodises, and for once Lutur is in complete agreement with him. 

Gêdul and Akhzur talk quietly together of their plans for when Akhzur has finished his apprenticeship, and Legolas learns for the first time that they are a couple. He would have not suspected; neither of them seems particularly demonstrative, though they do spend almost all their time together.

Fíli talks with somewhat feigned gloom of how he will be learning more of the administrative side of governance, and laments that being heir to the throne of Erebor is now more than just something to impress dwarrowdams. Despite his words, Legolas think he is not as adverse to the idea of responsibility as he seems.

Kíli, the dwarf who speaks even less than Akhzur, seems lost in thought and does not respond to his brother’s prodding with more than a half hearted grumble. Legolas has seen him glancing at Tauriel from time to time, and wonders if he is a particular friend of hers.

‘And you, Gimli? Of what do you think?’ Legolas asks his companion. 

Gimli draws on his pipe for a long moment. ‘Many things. I think of my lovely bed in my parents hall in the mountain. I think of eating something other than stew,’ he shoots Legolas a grin, ‘and I think of continuing my warrior training and gaining the level of master.’ He stops again, drawing in more smoke, and Legolas waits for him to continue. ‘But also I think of your words and how little of this world I have seen. Lands to the south and east that none I have spoken to can tell me of. I would like to go back to the sea, and to see for myself if the old tales of the White City hold true. Sadly, if many elves feel no desire to travel, the same can be said of dwarves. To go alone will make it less enjoyable, but it will not deter me.’

As he speaks, voice low to avoid drawing others into the conversation, Legolas can hear the ambition and determination in his tone, tempered with wonder, and feels an answering longing within himself.’

‘Ai, I too would like to see these things. When you spoke of the sights you have seen and wondered that I had not travelled more, I told you of my reasoning in staying with my people in my home. But now I find that is not the only thing I wish to see in the future. The seasons of the Greenwood may be wondrous and ever different but now my heart yearns for sights further abroad. It is said that the Men of the White City have some of the blood of elves about them, and in every elf there is a longing to see the sea, even if we never wish to travel the straight road.’ 

Legolas shakes his head, bringing himself out of the trance his imaginings had drawn him into. He looks to Gimli and finds him staring back, an unreadable expression on his face. Legolas raises an eyebrow in question, and Gimli looks away, busying himself with his pipe which seems to have gone out. 

‘Perhaps then, if you do go wandering, our paths may cross one day. It would be nice, in a foreign land, to see a familiar face.’

Legolas smiles. ‘Indeed it would, and perhaps should we meet we might travel together for a while. Or,’ he says, a thought striking him, ‘we might journey together from the start. If none of our own people can be persuaded to venture abroad, why should we not? And I would like to see the sights of which you spoke. We get on well, and travelling is more enjoyable with a companion.’ He waits expectantly for Gimli’s thoughts on his idea.

 

*

 

Gimli continues to fiddle with his pipe, scraping at bits of dottel to avoid looking at Legolas. The wistful expression on his face as he talked of the sea tugged at something in Gimli’s chest and left him feeling peculiar. 

He ignores the sensation, focusing on Legolas’s words. ‘An elf and a dwarf travelling together? Surely such a sight has not been seen in this age of Middle Earth.’ He stops, and Legolas remains silent while Gimli refills his pipe and lights it, puffing to draw the flame before he snuffs it out. 

Gimli goes through the automatic motions of tamping and relighting while he thinks. The idea is not unappealing, and he knows that he and Legolas can work together comfortably enough that travelling should not present a challenge. 

‘Aye, lad, I would be pleased to have you as a travelling companion, should we be journeying at the same time.’ Legolas looks pleased, if a little surprised, and Gimli thinks that he mistook his consideration for reluctance. ‘Though,’ Gimli muses, ‘I might have some trouble convincing my father that you are a worthy comrade; he well remembers your father’s ill treatment of their adventuring party.’ Legolas opens his mouth to speak, but Gimli forestalls him. ‘That is smoke through the chimney, though. You and I are not our fathers and need not carry on their fight.’ As he says this, Gimli can’t help but think of his attitude towards Tauriel on the same subject. How quickly his opinion has changed. Truly, _come live with me and you will know me_ is more accurate than he could have guessed. Even with such a little time together, he can say that Legolas would not imprison without just cause. 

Legolas smirks mirthlessly. ‘I fear my father would take more convincing than that, but I also fear that the point is moot. I cannot believe he will welcome me back with open arms after my ‘disobedience’. It is more likely that he will banish me, and Tauriel too if she wakes.’

He sends a look to where Tauriel lies, and Gimli feels a sudden chill. He had forgotten Tauriel and her claim on Legolas. When she wakes, will their tentative plan to travel together be forgotten?  
 _Trouble for another day,_ he thinks. 

Legolas continues, ‘But even if he does welcome us back, I will not forget the friendship you have shown me, and I would still like to go with you on your journey, at least to the sea.’ He smiles at Gimli, and Gimli pushes aside his trepidation and smiles back. 

 

*

 

When Legolas wakes the next day there is a change in the air. It lies heavy and still, clinging close as though it has grown thicker. A storm is coming.

He works with the dwarves through the day, stopping occasionally to check on Tauriel. His hands are already beginning to develop calluses from handling stone and tools, calluses in different places to those of an archer. 

The dwarves seem impressed with his ability to keep working as long as they do, and Legolas allows himself a little quiet pride at the hardiness of his race. Still, by the time they go back to camp, his muscles ache and his skin feels sticky and gritty. He takes himself off to bathe in the stream, relaxing in the cool water. The storm is not yet upon them, though if Legolas is any judge, it will be here in the next day or two. He finishes his bath and wanders back to camp, picking some dandelion leaves as he goes. He appreciates the dwarves’ willingness to share their food but the monotony and heavy fair is not what he is used to.

 

*

 

In the camp, Gimli lights the fire, pulling out tonight’s ration of dried meat and vegetables for the stew. His words to Legolas about proper dwarven cooking come back to him; as there is no hurry or even expectation of finishing the work, perhaps Fíli would allow someone a day of hunting to vary their pot once more. Though Tauriel was only providing for them for a short while, the different food she brought in is sorely missed.

There is a feeling of moisture in the air, and talk turns to preparations for the storm. It is perhaps a few days off still, but Gimli thinks it will lend weight to his request.

When Legolas returns from the stream he comes to sit beside Gimli, despite Gimli’s suggestion that he not sit so close to the fire. In the muggy air the additional heat from the flames is not very welcome. 

On the southern horizon clouds can just be seen gathering slowly. Gimli looks up to see Legolas watching them. ‘What are you thinking?’ he asks quietly. ‘Is this another working of Saruman?’

Legolas shakes his head. ‘Nay, this is natural and it will fall on the minions of Saruman as much as on us. Though it may make for an uncomfortable day there is no malice behind it.’

Gimli nods. ‘If it comes this way we’ll stay in til it passes. There is no hurry to finish the work.’ He turns his attention back to the food.

Dinner is subdued, everybody too hot and lethargic to be interested in anything more than idle conversation. Gimli lets the fire die once the meal is cooked and the slight reduction in heat is welcome. 

Despite a reluctance to sleep in what is likely to be an oppressively close atmosphere, everybody turns in early, none but Legolas refusing to sleep in the tent. For the first time since Tauriel fell to Saruman’s spell Gimli sees Kíli animated, insisting that Tauriel should be moved inside the tent for protection. Legolas is equally insistent that an elf would prefer to be outside no matter the weather. In the end, Fíli puts an end to it by reminding Kíli of Legolas’s right to make decisions for Tauriel until she can speak for herself. Kíli reluctantly accepts it but says nothing more for the rest of the evening, and Gimli can hear his breathing from across the tent, telling all who hear of his wakefulness long into the night. 

 

*

 

In the morning the weather is still dry but the air is heavy with moisture and all can tell there will be a storm tonight. Gimli has a word with Fíli about their supplies, and as a result Akhzur and Kíli go hunting. Legolas would be surprised if the two of them exchange more than a handful of words during the whole day.

The clouds fill most of the sky now and Legolas can smell the rain in the air, feel the heavy tingle of moisture on his skin. He drinks a little from the waterskin Gimli gave him the first day, standing by the workings and looking at the horizon. Gimli joins him and they stand companionably silent, neither feeling the need to speak. The humidity has made Gimli’s red hair dark with moisture whilst also curling it more heavily. Legolas idly wonders how it would feel to wind one of the locks around his finger, whether Gimli would allow it. The thought leaves him a little breathless but also ashamed of himself. _Dwarves do not let others tend to their hair._ Gimli would be uncomfortable if he knew of Legolas’s thoughts. 

Legolas is startled from his slightly guilty imaginings by Gimli’s voice. ‘It will be here tonight by my reckoning. The break in the weather will be most welcome.’

Legolas murmurs something in agreement, and Gimli stands for a moment longer before walking off again, back to collect his tools. Legolas lingers for a moment, enjoying the tingle of the storm on his skin before following him back to work.

The dwarves break early for the day, the light beginning to go as the sky turns bruise black, a sluggish wind stirring the heather but doing little to provide relief. The hunters have returned with four rabbits and two grouse, and Gimli makes the stew with some of it, roasting the rest and lamenting that there is no way to store and keep it fresh to eat the following day.

The storm has not yet broken by the time dinner is finished, but the wind is beginning to rise. Legolas has already moved Tauriel into the tent and for the first time he too takes refuge there. The canvas sides swell and billow in the wind and it is not long before the thud of raindrops on canvas begins. Though the wind continues, it does not get any stronger and the tent holds. Despite the stuffy air, Legolas is grateful to be under cover. 

The ground, flattened by the dwarves’ usage, is less comfortable than sleeping on the springy heather and Legolas finds it difficult to drift into reverie. After the third time he tries to find a more comfortable position, Gimli huffs. ‘You should have thought ahead and gathered heather to sleep on. Come closer, there is space next to me.’

Legolas moves willingly, and Gimli shuffles and shifts until there is a gap on the heather mattress between him and the next dwarf, Legolas cannot tell who in the dark. Lying down, he faces Gimli and has to catch his breath at how close they are. If he moved even an inch closer Gimli’s hair would be tickling his face. 

He can feel his face flushing at the thought. This fascination with Gimli’s hair, where has it come from? Of course he noticed the colour; the red so different to Tauriel's or that of any other Silvan. But now he notices the curl, the highlights and lowlights, the way the braids lie. He wonders at the difference in texture between the hair on Gimli’s head and that of his beard. What would it feel like between his fingers? How would it feel to comb it?

He can feel his face growing warmer, his skin tingling strangely. Gimli gives him a curious look. _He is only inches away! It would not be so odd if I were to accidentally touch his hair as I slept. Or even slightly before I slept..._

No! Gimli is his friend and would not be happy if Legolas played with his hair. Legolas closes his eyes determinedly, still aware of the strange tingling of his skin, and folds his hands under his head so they cannot be tempted to wander. With an effort of will he drags himself into reverie. 

 

*

 

The wind dies but the rain continues through the night and into the morning. When the dwarves wake it’s quickly decided they won’t be working today.

Gimli is clearly not looking forward to cooking, and Legolas digs in his pack. ‘Here,’ he says, handing out wafers of _lembas_. ‘This will do instead of porridge.’ 

The dwarves take the _lembas_ eagerly, and Gimli smiles at Legolas. ‘Much appreciated. I did not relish the idea of soaking myself to cook in this.’ Legolas just nods in reply, nibbling his share of the _lembas_. He cannot forget his thoughts of last night, and Gimli’s smiling thanks warms him more than it should. 

The rain does not stop all morning and eventually Legolas is forced to leave the tent in order to get some air free of pipe-smoke. The weather does not bother him and he sits by the stream for a while, watching the raindrops splash into the water and dance on the leaves. 

He is recalled to himself by a shout. ‘Legolas!’

Gimli’s voice. Legolas springs up, hastening back to the camp, heart in his throat. Has an enemy come upon them undetected?

When the tent comes in sight he can see no danger, and slows his pace. Gimli stands in the entrance to the tent, hands on his hips. ‘Where have you been, laddie? You’ll catch your death, singing in the rain like that.’ He is clearly concerned.

Legolas smiles at him. ‘Forgive me, I was enjoying the way the rain falls onto the stream and did not think of the time. I did not mean to worry you.’

Gimli grumbles under his breath. ‘Come on in, get out of those wet things. Here, wrap yourself in a blanket.’ He bustles around Legolas, chivvying him out of his tunic and breeches and into a blanket. He then wrings out Legolas’s wet clothing and hangs it over the ridge pole to dry, ignoring Akhzur’s grumbles about being dripped on. He comes back to sit beside Legolas, frowning. ‘There’s no way to make you something warm without getting soaked.’

Legolas untangles a hand from the blanket and reaches over to rest it on Gimli’s arm. ‘Peace, Gimli. Elves are hardy creatures, we do not feel the cold as you do. I will come to no harm from my soaking.’

Gimli huffs and mutters a little but he subsides and looks less worried. Legolas leans over and nudges him with his shoulder. ‘Fíli was right, you will make someone a very good husband someday.’

Gimli scowls at him.

 

*

 

The only sound in the tent is the drum of rain and the click of Lusud’s knitting needles. Gimli is relieved that Legolas shows no signs of having caught a chill. _Daft elf, prancing around in the rain._

Beside him Legolas is quiet, not even humming. Unusual. Gimli nudges him. ‘Alright, laddie?’

Legolas nods. ‘I was thinking of home, what we would do to pass a rainy day.’

Gimli raises an eyebrow. ‘Oh aye? What would you be doing?’

Legolas grins at him. ‘Singing, likely as not.’

Gimli snorts. ‘Should have guessed.’ The grin at each other.

‘What would you do usually?’ Legolas asks. 

Gimli shrugs. ‘Not many rainy days beneath a mountain. Too much rock in the way.’ Legolas elbows him and Gimli relents. ‘We would spend free days with family and friends, working on our own projects, taking the chance to relax. Much as elves would, I imagine.’

‘But with less singing,’ Legolas interjects.

Gimli shrugs. ‘Don’t be so sure of it, laddie. Just because you haven’t heard us sing out here does not mean we don’t do it. We have work songs and drinking songs, songs for festivals, songs we sing while doing nothing much. We simply do not share them with outsiders.’

Legolas looks wistful. ‘Ah, that is a pity! I would like to hear some of your songs.’

Talking to Legolas, Gimli has all but forgotten the others are still there. It’s not until Fíli breaks in that he’s reminded of his surroundings.

‘We might not sing songs in Khuzdul, but we know songs in Westeron too. We could sing those. It would help pass the time,’ he says when the others turn to look at him.

Lutur shrugs. ‘No reason why not to. Kíli, where’s your fiddle?’ Kíli leans backwards to reach it, bringing it out along with Fíli's. Gêdul rummages around until he finds his harp and Akhzur passes Gimli his drum from where it sits beside Akhzur’s. 

Lutur makes a face. ‘I left my viol in the mountain. Too big to bring.’ She tips her head at Lusud. ‘He doesn’t play anything.’

Lusud shrugs. ‘Never got the hang of it.’ 

His sister snorts. ‘Couldn’t be bothered to practise, you mean.’

Gêdul looks around. ‘What shall we play? What does everyone know?’

Fíli shrugs and picks up his fiddle. The tune he plays is familiar to all of them and within seconds they have all picked up the beat. Lutur nods along, waiting for the right moment, then begins to sing:

_Far over the misty mountains cold_   
_To dungeons deep and caverns old_   
_We must away ere break of day_   
_To seek the pale enchanted gold._

Gimli watches Legolas from the corner of his eye as the song goes on. Legolas is sitting forward in his blankets, drinking the music in eagerly like a child listening to a wonderful story. Before long he is nodding to the beat, the movement echoing the thump of the drums, and even beginning to join in the rest of the dwarves on the chorus. As the song draws to its conclusion Fíli changes the tune with a grin, turning it into something more light-hearted, and Gimli recognises what is commonly known as _Bilbo’s Song_ in the mountain.

This time Fíli and Kíli sing together, Lutur’s voice dropping out.

_Chip the glasses and crack the plates!_   
_Blunt the knives and bend the forks!_   
_That’s what Bilbo Baggins hates -_   
_Smash the bottles and burn the corks!_

At the final lines Legolas laughs brightly, and Gimli sees Kíli smiling too, looking more cheerful than Gimli has seen him since Tauriel was cursed and Legolas arrived. ‘Misty Mountain Hop next!’ Kíli cries, leading the fiddles in, and the others follow.

When they finish, Legolas applauds. ‘When Tauriel wakes, you will have to play that for her, she would love it!’ he exclaims, and Gimli sees Kíli’s face fall back into its previous quietly miserable expression.

Something in Gimli clenches. He too had forgotten about Legolas and Tauriel, that they wear each other’s beads. _It could be worse,_ he assures himself. _You will miss him as a friend when he returns to Mirkwood, but Kíli will be left without his One._

He shakes off the thought, leading the instruments into the next song now that Kíli has dropped back, beginning the introduction to a song he has heard sung by Men in the pubs of Dale and Laketown. It’s slower, more melancholy than the last one, but he finds it suddenly more fitting to his mood. Lutur picks up on it quickly, nodding and swaying until she breaks into the first verse:

_There is a house in Minas Tirith  
They call the Rising Sun..._

Gimli hums along with the chorus, his voice blending into one with that of the others. It’s not the same without the rock to work with, to bounce echoes off until it sounds as though a thousand dwarves are singing in harmony, but it will still give Legolas an idea of dwarven music.

Lusud calls for a song when they finish, requesting _Drink Some More_ , and afterwards Gêdul asks for _Rocky Road to Belfalas Bay,_ and so this way they pass the time until the rain begins to ease.

 

*

 

Legolas finds he doesn’t mind the close confines of the tent when the dwarves are occupied with singing rather than smoking. The music is very different from the songs he knows, though in some cases the subjects are similar.

Mostly he watches Gimli. Gimli doesn’t take the lead in any of the songs, preferring to join in the chorus, concentrating on keeping an even beat alongside Akhzur. He seemed to be enjoying himself in the first few songs but now to Legolas’ eye he has withdrawn into himself. Legolas waits for a break in the music to speak to him, but when it comes Gimli takes advantage of the lessening rain to leave the tent. 

Legolas debates leaving him be but instead gives him a minute or two then follows him out, leaving the dwarves listening to Lutur and Lusud arguing comfortably.

The air is still full of moisture and the occasional raindrop soaks into Legolas’s blanket. Still, after the last few hours in the tent any fresh air is welcome.

Legolas can see Gimli sitting on the outcrop a little way away, looking out over the slopes of the mountain. He walks lightly over to join him, enjoying the slight squish of damp earth below his feet.

Gimli doesn’t turn at his approach but neither does he seem surprised to see Legolas beside him. ‘You’ll catch your death, coming out here in just a blanket,’ he says, but his voice is more contemplative than worried.

‘Elves do not catch cold so easily,’ Legolas replies, and this time Gimli does not protest. ‘What ails you, _mellon-nín?_ ’ Legolas asks, aware this is the first time he has uttered the sentiment. He may have considered them friends before today, but that was pale compared to the fact this short time later.

Gimli does not reply for several minutes. ‘Nothing much,’ he says at last. ‘I was thinking of how quick we were to abandon years of enmity between our people, and how you and Tauriel will leave once more when Gandalf returns. I hope distance will not return us to our previous indifference to each other.’

A hand reaches into Legolas’s chest and presses against his lungs, leaving him short of breath. ‘For my part, I do not intend to abandon our friendship so easily,’ he manages to force out. Truly, the thought of not seeing Gimli again is harder to bear than he would have imagined. 

Gimli looks at him seriously. ‘I too do not want to lose you as a friend. I just hope that we can keep to our resolution.’

The hand is still pressing on his lungs but Legolas can breath a little easier at Gimli’s words. ‘It is not far to Laketown from here or from the Greenwood. We could easily meet there.’

Gimli gives him a long look followed by a lightening of his expression. ‘Aye lad, that we could. Though we may not ever make the journeys we have talked of, we can still be friends.’

The hand in Legolas’s chest forms a fist which drops to his stomach and sits there like a stone. _It was just idle speculation in the first place, but why can we not journey together?_ He opens him mouth to ask Gimli, but before he can Gimli heaves himself off the rock, stretching and glancing at the sky once he is standing. ‘Come along lad, it looks like rain again and it would be foolhardy of you to get your blanket as soaked as your clothing.’ He walks off without waiting for Legolas to reply and Legolas has no chance to speak. He follows Gimli back inside the tent, the fist still sitting in his stomach.

 

*

 

Inside the tent the air is less close, Gêdul having taken the break in the rain as an opportunity to tie back the flaps and let fresh air in. He has also lit a fire in the firepit using some of their stored firewood and brewed tea. Gimli takes a cup gratefully, glad someone thought to make use of the dry spell in the weather whilst he was busy moping.

He sips his tea, huddled over the warm tin mug, deliberately not making eye contact with Legolas. Though his heart lightened to hear that Legolas did not plan to forget him once Tauriel woke, the thought of the parting to come is still hard to stomach. 

_Stop this,_ he tells himself sternly. _He is your friend, he has said he will not forget you, what more do you wish for?_ But even as he thinks this, he knows the answer. He wishes to travel with Legolas, to spend more time with him, learn more of his thoughts and watch his face as he sees the sights Gimli told him of.

_Best not to think of it,_ he thinks bleakly. _Friendship is all you will get._ He focuses on his tea and the continuing argument between Lusud and Lutur, refusing to think about what more he might or might not like to have from Legolas. 

 

*

 

The rain passes fully in the night, and when they emerge from the tent in the morning it is to blue skies once more. The ground is too damp to sit on and Gimli is thankful for the boulder positioned near enough the fire that he can cook without getting wet. 

Dinner the night before was more waybread, and so Gimli makes double the usual amount of porridge. Despite how surprisingly filling elvish waybread is, none of the porridge is left.

Legolas seems to be avoiding Gimli’s gaze, which is a little odd but suits Gimli. Lying awake last night, Legolas asleep beside him, Gimli had a pervasive feeling of _rightness_ , as though everything he wanted was within his grasp. But it’s not, and Gimli is beginning to become uncomfortable aware that he may be more like his cousin than he thought. 

In vain does he go through the things he found so objectionable when Legolas first arrived: haughty and cold _(worried and uncertain)_ , dismissive of dwarves _(but he asked to travel with you)_ , gangly and odd-looking and too tall _(graceful and strong, and even then you thought him pretty)_. Still no beard, but his hair… Gimli finds, to his misery, he doesn’t even mind that any more.

Working brings no respite, Legolas taking his usual place beside Gimli and wielding the pickaxe with more skill than he had only a few days ago. The bunch and swell of his muscles, the swing of his hair as he bends forward… Gimli nearly drops a rock on his foot. This earns him a laughing comment from Legolas, and the sight of his face lit with a smile…

Gimli is in more trouble than he thought.

 

*

 

Gimli seems quiet today and Legolas cannot think of a way to bring back their usual camaraderie, hampered as he is by his own uninvited thoughts. When Gimli nearly drops a rock on his foot Legolas takes the opportunity to remind him of his comment when Legolas first joined in the work, but even this does not provoke the expected response. Instead Gimli scowls heavily and turns away without a word, leaving Legolas feeling suddenly unsettled and hollow. Has he does something wrong? _Does Gimli somehow know what Legolas was thinking the other night?_

Suddenly worried that he has in some way betrayed his imaginings, Legolas concentrates on the rock he is attempting to move, looking for weak spots and banishing all else from his head. 

But the thoughts refuse to be banished, and Legolas finds himself aware of every move of Gimli’s, every grunt of exertion or satisfaction as he works. The day is warm but even so Legolas feels overheated, more so that he would expect. 

They take a break at midday, and whilst usually Legolas and Gimli would sit and watch the horizon together this time Legolas watches alone. 

He doesn’t enjoy it nearly so much.

Determined to make up for whatever gave away his thoughts, Legolas sits by Gimli as usual whilst he makes dinner. The ground is still damp, but a thick enough layer of gathered heather makes it bearable. 

Now here, Legolas does not quite know how to start. ‘Gimli...’ Gimli grunts, but doesn’t look away from the fire. Legolas takes a deep breath and forges ahead. ‘Gimli, if I have offended you somehow, I apologise. It was not my intention to make you uncomfortable and I would not have our friendship end this way, not if I can do anything to repair it.’ He waits for Gimli’s response, no idea what to expect.

 

*

 

Gimli doesn’t dare look at Legolas’s earnest face, listening in silence and with a sinking heart. _He blames himself and yet has done nothing. Is this any way to treat one whom you would call friend?_

He sighs internally. He cannot in good conscience continue to let Legolas think it is he who is in the wrong when in fact it is Gimli, Gimli who cannot bury these sudden feelings. _Not all that sudden, really,_ he admits to himself. _You have been thinking more and more of him, first as a friend, now as… more than a friend._ He is not ready to make that last admission even to himself.

But he cannot allow Legolas to take the blame on himself. ‘No, lad, it’s not your fault. You have done nothing wrong.’ He tries to think of a reasonable excuse that Legolas will believe, settling on a version of the truth. ‘I find myself looking with a heavy heart to the day when Tauriel wakes and you return to your forest. Surely that day cannot be far off now and I will miss you when you leave. Who knows how long it may be before we meet once again?’

Legolas must accept this explanation because he looks suddenly both relieved and stricken. ‘Gimli, mellon-nín, do not worry yourself on that account. It is not a long journey between our homes, we shall meet again. We have planned to travel together and I will not take kindly to you abandoning me so lightly.’ He laughs, but Gimli can tell it is forced, the sound fragile. ‘Indeed, my heart feels heavy for the same reason; you will have more trouble than you think in getting rid of me.’ A determined look crosses his face. ‘I will return to the Greenwood once Mithrandir arrives; I must go to speak with my father, convince him of the truth in Tauriel's words, but once the scourge of Saruman and his orcs are driven from the woods I will return.’ Legolas looks away, a delicate wash of pink crossing his cheeks. ‘I believe I will have things to say to you then.’ He leans forward to poke at the fire vigorously, not looking at Gimli.

Gimli takes this in, a part of him wondering what Legolas means by ‘things to say to you,’ but focusing more on the part where Legolas returns to his home. It cannot be stopped or delayed; he has a duty to his people.

‘Aye, that’s as may be, laddie, but duty has a way of sneaking up on you. You are a prince of your people, and princes have many responsibilities that keep them from acting as they would please. If you cannot return for whatever reason, we may still meet in Laketown on occasion.’

Legolas looks as though Gimli’s words hurt to hear, but at the same time he nods his acceptance. ‘You speak truly. I do not know what I will find when I return to the Greenwood. Though the fact that I am a prince matters less when my father has no intention of giving up his throne.’

Gimli shrugs. ‘Many things come to pass that are not expected. For instance, friendship between an elf and a dwarf.’ He hopes to lighten the mood with his comment and it seem to work, Legolas smiling once more.

‘Indeed, none could have predicted that. Truly a wonder of this age.’

Gimli snorts. ‘This age is not over yet, but I cannot think what could beat this.’

Legolas laughs. ‘Nay, nor I. I have been on this earth almost since the beginning of this age, and so far I have seen nothing more shocking.’

Gimli is sidetracked from their teasing banter by Legolas’s words. ‘Since the beginning of this age? Surely you joke. That is almost three thousand years!’

Legolas laughs at his astonishment. ‘Ah, elves do not age. Truly, I have lived all that time but it is only in the last weeks that I have begun to learn of the world, it seems.’ His smile turns softer. ‘How many years have you to your name, Gimli son of Glóin?’

‘Sixty nine,’ Gimli replies with a sinking heart. Never before has the distance between them seemed greater. 

‘Why, you are young!’ Legolas exclaims, half laughing his astonishment. ‘With your words of wisdom I thought you to have many more years to call upon!’ 

Gimli scowls. Another strike against him, in the eyes of an elf. As though he needs any more help to seem less. ‘Aye, well, times were hard in Ered Luin. Many were forced to learn wisdom and prudence sooner that they should. There was not much time to be young. But now some of us are making up for it.’ He makes to shoot a glare at Kíli but halts himself. Kíli isn’t the same dwarf who thought it a good idea to play a prank on Thorin. In time he will regain most of his former spark, but at the moment, with all he wants so near and yet so far, he is hardly the merry cousin Gimli remembers from his childhood and adolescence. 

Legolas’s mirth eases as he senses Gimli’s mood darkening. ‘It is no bad thing to be young, nor to be prudent. Elves may be old in years but in outlook there is something of the elfling in all of us.’

Gimli thinks of the way Legolas can spend hours sitting by the stream and watching the water and the dragonflies, and how he sat out in the rain to enjoy the feel of the raindrops, and doesn’t find anything to disagree with in that statement. 

‘Aye, that is true enough,’ he agrees, turning back to the dinner to give it a prod. Legolas doesn’t say anything, and though there is more ease between them than there was earlier, they are still not back to usual.

 

*

 

Legolas can sense there is still some lingering distance between Gimli and himself, but he does not know how to breech it. He tries to act as normal but Gimli makes it difficult, his answers terser than before, some of the ease between them gone.

Legolas knows he himself is acting differently as well. This new awareness of Gimli has not dissipated, and any hope Legolas may have had of it being down to close quarters is banished.

He spends some time tending to Tauriel, as he has been doing every evening, and wishes more than usual that he could speak to her. She has always been the sounding board against which he makes sense of things, and to have this monumental upheaval in his life without her to discuss it with seems wrong.

Still, though she cannot reply he can still talk to her, in Sindarin to keep it private. 

‘I cannot stop thinking about him. His hair, Tauriel! And he has markings on his body, ones he chose to put there. When I first saw them I thought them barbaric, but now...’ he glances over his shoulder guiltily, as though he could not hear if anyone approached, as if anyone here could understand his words. ‘What do they feel like?’ Even to a sleeping, enchanted Tauriel, he cannot speak his next question. _What do they taste like?_

Legolas blushes furiously at the direction of his thoughts. He cannot ever remember wondering such a thing before. Why is he suddenly afflicted like this, with a constant awareness of how close Gimli is, of how he looks. How easy it would be for Legolas to run his hands through Gimli’s beard, to undo the braids and spread the strands until they run through his fingers like water.

He gasps a little, turning from Tauriel. This is not usual. His stomach feels tight, his hands shake, he wants to see Gimli desperately and at the same time wants to hide until he feels normal again. What is this? Has Saruman cursed him too?

But it does not feel unnatural, magical, ill-wished. He feels… he feels…

‘Light,’ he whispers. ‘I feel light when he looks at me.’ Light and heavy together, as though he is inhabiting his body in new ways. There is a pull towards Gimli that Legolas can feel, and unbearable as it may be, the thought of separation, of never setting eyes on Gimli again, is even worse.

‘Tauriel, I need you to wake up,’ Legolas whispers. He has things to ask. 

Things like, _Is this love?_

 

*

 

Gimli stops Kíli when he would have gone into the tent to fetch his pipe. ‘Legolas is in there with Tauriel.’ He is not under any illusion that his cousin was unaware of where Tauriel is, but he might not have noticed Legolas’s absence. 

Kíli abruptly turns away from the tent at Gimli’s warning, slumping down beside him instead. ‘Oh,’ is all he says, but Gimli can hear a world of meaning in it. 

‘Aye,’ he agrees, and nothing more is said for long moments. The others are scattered, Gêdul and Akhzur taking time together, Fíli on washing up duty, Lutur and Lusud playing cockshies. 

‘When did you know?’ The question is out before Gimli can stop himself. Kíli looks at him, and Gimli clarifies. ‘When did you know Tauriel was your One?’ Kíli makes a noise of protest, and Gimli snorts. ‘Everybody knows apart from Legolas and Tauriel. You have not done much to hide it.’

Kíli is the picture of misery. ‘Could you, if your One was enchanted to appear dead, under threat from a wizard with no guarantee they will ever wake, and even if they do, promised to another? Why should I? I will not deny her, nor my feelings, though they be unwanted and unspoken.’

Gimli can’t remember hearing Kíli ever speak like this before. ‘But how did you know?’ he asks again.

Kíli looks off into the distance. ‘I knew when the sight of her made my heart leap and my stomach twist. When her smile made me smile too, and the thought of her leaving for Mirkwood and never coming back made my heart ache to the point that I thought it had stopped. When I wanted nothing more than to see her and sit with her, even if she never thought of me as anything more than a friend.’ He looks back at Gimli, and Gimli can see nothing but unhappiness and longing in his face. ‘But most of all I knew when I realised that even if I had the choice not to have met her, I would rather know her and know this pain than live without having met her.’ And now, behind the pain, Gimli can see acceptance, a kind of terrible peace. He looks away, unable to look at Kíli's face when he fears a measure of the same emotions will be showing on his own.

There is silence again, then Kíli speaks. ‘Why do you ask?’ He sounds as though he already knows the answer.

Gimli still does not look at him. ‘Legolas… I am not sure. But when he speaks of returning to his home as he must do, my heart sinks and my skin turns cold. He says we shall see each other again, but I cannot help but fear that something will happen, he will become occupied with something else, and our plans will fall to the wayside. But not to have known him…’ Gimli glances at his cousin. ‘I too would choose to have met.’ Kíli looks at him in perfect understanding, and silence falls once more, both absorbed in their own thoughts. Soon Lusud and Lutur return and join them, arguing about who won, and then Fíli returns with the clean dishes. Gêdul and Akhzur are still wandering, but Legolas joins them again, sitting next to Gimli even as they avoid looking at each other. 

Gimli can feel every breath Legolas takes, hear every nuance of his voice as he talks to Lutur, and knows even now that his words to Kíli were not entirely true.

He is sure.

 

*

 

Even as he speaks and works as usual, Legolas could not say what he has been doing. His thoughts revolve around Gimli. Gimli, still quiet, still distant. Still making Legolas feel breathless and light.

Despite the weather turning warm again and his usual preference to sleep under the stars no matter how damp the ground, Legolas seized the opportunity to spend another night sharing a bed with Gimli. He cannot say he slept, nor did he fall into reverie, too engrossed in watching Gimli sleep. The minute flutters of his lashes, the rise and fall of his chest beneath the blanket; all more absorbing than Legolas could have imagined. 

If this is not love, then Legolas cannot imagine what more love could involve. Gimli is central to Legolas’s every consideration and he finds himself darting glances at Gimli whenever he can. Gimli’s uncertainty over whether or not they would carry out their plans to travel together still hurts two days later. When Legolas thinks of never seeing Gimli again, even of only seeing him sporadically, the fist returns to his lungs and he loses his breath again.

In contrast, when he dares to think about touching Gimli, his hair or his face, even _kissing..._ Well, Legolas is glad that moving rocks can be used to explain his flushed face and shortness of breath.

Legolas does think it a _little_ unfair that he ends up short of breath regardless of whether he has good or bad thoughts about Gimli. 

The midday break finds Legolas sitting and watching the horizon, sipping occasionally from his waterskin. From here he can see the camp as well, still undisturbed, and the lack of response from Saruman worries him a little. At first he was grateful for the respite, but now it makes him anxious more than anything, waiting for the next leaf to drop.

The break is almost over when Gimli comes to join him. Legolas doesn’t know whether or not to try and begin a conversation; Gimli has been distant for the last two days. He decides not to say anything, continuing to scan the horizon while watching Gimli out of the corner of his eye.

Much of Gimli’s face is covered by his beard but his eyes are expressive enough to make up for that. Right now, from what little of Gimli’s face Legolas can see on the edge of his vision, Gimli looks uncertain. His beard twitches a few times as though he opened his mouth to speak then could not find the words. Legolas understands that feeling. He feels rather the same himself.

When Legolas continues not to acknowledge Gimli’s arrival, Gimli’s shoulders slump. Legolas takes pity on him, speaking before Gimli can leave. ‘A fine day. The sun will dry the last of the rain from the ground.’ He wills Gimli to answer, take the opening presented.

If anything, Gimli seems even more dispirited at Legolas’s words. ‘Is this what we are reduced to? Trading pleasantries about the weather?’

Abruptly, Legolas loses his temper, turning to face Gimli head on. ‘What else should I think? You have been avoiding me for two days and though you claim it is not my fault, I must have done something to earn your disinterest.’

Gimli looks as though he has been punched. ‘Disinterest?’

‘Yes!’ Legolas flares. ‘What else am I to call it, when you will barely speak to me or look at me?’ And it hurts that Gimli will not, hurts in a way that Legolas has not felt before.

Gimli’s shoulders slump even further. ‘I have wronged you, my friend. I look to our parting with a heavy heart, and I have allowed its’ shadow to fall on my mood.’

‘Don’t,’ Legolas pleads. ‘Do not focus on the parting, instead think of the reunion. Or if not, think of the plans we spoke of. You are dear to me, Gimli,’ _more dear than you know_ , ‘and I will not forget you so quickly. Have faith that our words of the future will come to pass or you will doom us before ever we say goodbye.’

Legolas holds his breath, waiting for Gimli’s response. It feels as though the age ends and a new one begins before he speaks.

‘You are right, laddie. I am sorry for my faithlessness. You have not been untrue to your word and to doubt you is wrong. I will not linger on the fact that you must go back to your wood and instead think of when next we meet.’ And he smiles at Legolas, smiles properly for the first time in days.

The breath Legolas lets out is distinctly shaky. ‘Thank you, _mellon-nín._ ’ The flood of accompanying relief is almost overwhelming.

 

*

 

Gimli tries his hardest to live up to his promise to Legolas. They sit together while Gimli prepares dinner, talk softly afterwards, heads together and covering everything and nothing with their words. If these are to be his last days with Legolas before Gandalf’s return, for surely he cannot be far off now, then Gimli will use the time to horde every memory of Legolas, every scrap of knowledge he can. He cannot quite bring himself to sleep outside with Legolas, but only because Tauriel is there as well and the hopelessness of his situation would be too much. He sees and ignores the looks his friends give him, the ones they also give to Kíli.

The next day is the same, working beside Legolas, sharing jokes as they arise and attempting to teach him a translated version of a Khuzdul work song. The rhymes don’t work in Westeron.

Legolas seems brighter than Gimli has seen him in days, and Gimli feels ashamed of how his distance affected his One. For there is no denying it to himself any longer – Legolas is Gimli’s One. Were it not for Tauriel, Gimli would be planning to follow Legolas back to his forest, to make a life with him one way or another.

But there is Tauriel, so all Gimli will have are these last few precious days and the ever distant promise of journeying together ‘one day.’

 

*

 

Legolas feels as though he has not touched the ground since the previous day.

He is in love.

For what else can it be? Gimli is in his every thought, and their renewed closeness is everything he could have wished for. Every tiny scrap of information, of understanding of Gimli is carefully folded away to bring out later, examine and treasure. 

Oh, there are things he knows he must consider. His father, for one. The fact that Gimli is mortal.   
Whether or not Gimli feels the same.

And, for all that he has told Gimli not to think of it, the fact that Legolas must return to his home, though it may be for the last time. He owes it to his friends, his people, to help drive Saruman and his orcs from Dol Guldur and restore a rationally minded king to them. 

His mind is made up, however. When the orcs have been driven from the wood, Saruman shown as the servant of evil he truly is and the elves of the Greenwood safe once more, Legolas will return to the mountain and speak to Gimli of his heart.

 

*

 

Gimli is laughing at Legolas’s frown of annoyance over a particularly ungainly Khuzdul to Westeron translation, when beside him Legolas stops automatically sweeping the horizon and stares at something only he can see. Gimli immediately stops laughing, alarm sweeping through him. ‘What is it?’

Legolas is still, looking hard into the distance. ‘Two figures, coming this way. I think -’ he breaks off, and all the dwarves wait for his next words, tension mounting.

Legolas gives a glad cry. ‘Ai, it is Mithrandir! And he has the Lady of the Golden Wood with him! They are coming!’ Without waiting he shoots off, skipping down the hillside from rock to rock, as sure-footed as a mountain goat and far more graceful.

A stone takes up lodging in Gimli’s throat. He knew Gandalf was coming, but so soon - 

_I need more time!_

Around him the rest of the dwarves are hurriedly packing up their tools despite the fact that it will still be a few hours until Gandalf reaches the camp. Across the work site Gimli can see Kíli, similarly transfixed. 

Slowly Gimli gathers his and Legolas’s tools, waiting until the rest of the dwarves bar Kíli have begun down the slope. He doesn’t offer any words to his cousin. Neither of them are in a mood to speak.

 

*

 

For lack of anything better to do while they wait for Gandalf, Gimli lights the fire and boils tea. The mood in the camp is cheerful and if Gimli needed proof that Tauriel's bewitchment has affected them all, the lightened atmosphere would provide it.

Legolas is, as Gimli would have expected, the most cheerful of all and Gimli can almost feel the waves of relief coming off him. He accepted a mug of tea but it sits abandoned beside Gimli, Legolas too busy flitting about to drink it.

But the tea is long cold and Legolas’s restlessness worn out somewhat before Gandalf nears. Legolas has been watching his progress intermittently and now runs down the slope to meet him. Gimli stays where his is, poking at the fire. It will soon be time to begin dinner, likely the last one he will share with Legolas for some time. He wishes he could make something other than stew but there is no time to hunt and no other supplies.

Gandalf reaches the camp not long after, Legolas walking on one side and a stranger on the other. This must be the Lady of the Golden Wood that Legolas spoke of. In the failing light Gimli can make out few details of her and is not interested enough to try and make out any more. 

The dwarves greet Gandalf gladly, even Kíli and Gimli managing smiles. Fíli urges him to come and sit by the fire and offers tea, sending Lusud to fetch more water when the offer is accepted. Gimli busies himself measuring out tea-leaves and gathering the mugs and so misses the moment when the Lady of the Golden Wood moves closer and sits at the fire where the light can easily reach her face. When he glances up again and catches sight of her, Gimli is awestruck.

 

*

 

At first, when he saw Mithrandir and the Lady Galadriel on the horizon Legolas could not have been more glad. Waiting impatiently in the camp took all his concentration; he would far rather have run out to meet them. When they drew close enough for all to see, the thought of Tauriel's deliverance made him too impatient to wait any longer. The relief and happiness could not be contained and he ran to meet them and accompany them back to the camp.

Now, though he is still relieved that they have arrived and Tauriel’s restoration is at hand, he can’t help but feel more than a little resentful.

Gimli has not stopped staring at Lady Galadriel since she arrived. Every time Legolas thinks Gimli has broken his gaze to focus on something else, he finds him still staring, now out of the corner of his eye, now from underneath his eyelashes. He has not taken his eyes off her for a minute.

Jealousy burns in Legolas’s chest. When Gimli actually spoke to the Lady, apologising for having nothing to offer for dinner but stew, Legolas wanted to stamp his feet like an elfling. Gimli was not supposed to act like this! He laughs at Legolas and tells him to be grateful not to be fed anything worse; why is he being so solicitous to her?

A small, rational part of him whispers of her beauty, her graciousness, how several of the other dwarves stare as well, though not as continuously as Gimli. Legends of the Lady’s beauty are told among the elves, most of whom pale beside her. Can he truly blame Gimli for also thinking the same?

The larger, non rational part of Legolas wants to throw a tantrum. _Gimli is only supposed to have eyes for me!_

But even in the midst of his jealously Legolas admits that is unfair. There have been no words spoken of this between Gimli and himself; no promises made. Truly, though Gimli seems to look at him with fondness, Legolas has no reason to think there is anything other than friendship felt on Gimli’s part. 

With his return to his father’s realm now imminent and new uncertainty introduced to his heart, Legolas finds he does not want to wait to speak to Gimli of the future.

 

*

 

Gimli knows he is being ridiculous, acting like a gem-struck idiot, but he cannot make himself look away. The Lady Galadriel is like starlight, distant and wondrous, untouchable. Yet when Gandalf introduced them all and Gimli gathered up the courage to speak to her, apologising for the lack of appropriate food, she was not cold, her words warm and gracious as any could wish. Gimli is awestruck. Beside her everything seems so pale, and he can hardly bear to look away. 

At his side, Legolas moves and Gimli's attention is divided. The spell of the lady breaks for a second and he looks at Legolas instinctively. Compared to Galadriel, Legolas is both less and more. Less radiant, less ethereal, more solid, present, close and warm. He is touchable and real, and Gimli’s heart burns for him. If Galadriel is starlight then Legolas is firelight, speaking of warmth, home, safety and companionship. 

The lady, Gimli could worship, but Legolas he loves.

Conversation around the fire is of Tauriel and how best to break the spell. The lady says it will be easier in the day, sunlight helping to dispel the shadows of Saruman’s workings. She and Gandalf have apparently already begun to work against Saruman, the elves of Lothlórien running sorties against Dol Guldur, distracting Saruman’s forces, relieving the pressure on the belaboured elves of Mirkwood and causing him to abandon his hunt for Legolas and Tauriel. Gimli can feel an ease in Legolas’s posture at this explanation for the dearth of attacks. 

Legolas is quiet as dinner is served and though Gimli finds it hard to take his attention away from the lady for any period of time, he still wonders at this. He would have expected Legolas to be more excited at the though of Tauriel being restored to him. When the meal is finished Legolas volunteers to do the washing up, striding off towards the stream in a manner Gimli would almost call angry. He is away for longer than Gimli would have expected. Even with the lady in front of him Gimli could not fail to be aware of Legolas, his moods and movements, his presence and absence.

With the lady’s permission the dwarves bring out their pipes, Gandalf too, and Fíli and he try to outdo each other’s smoke rings. Fíli is not yet up to Thorin's standard but he is definitely getting there.

The evening grows late and Gimli is just beginning to seriously wonder about going to look for Legolas when he hears movement in the heather behind him.

‘Gimli.’ Legolas comes to sit beside him. Gimli glances over quickly to check all is well then goes back to watching Lady Galadriel and Gandalf talk together on the other side of the fire. 

‘Hmm?’ he replies, attention diverted from Legolas by the way firelight plays on the Lady’s skin.  
Legolas’s voice is hesitant. ‘I... have a question to ask. Will you hear it?’

Gimli nods, glancing at him quickly. ‘Not like you to be so hesitant, laddie. Everything alright?’

Legolas ignores his question, taking a deep breath. ‘If I made a song for you, if I sang it to you, would you care to learn it?’

At this, Gimli wrenches his eyes away from the lady to stare at Legolas. ‘You want to write me a song?’ 

It’s difficult to tell in the low light but Gimli thinks Legolas blushes at his astonishment. But he meets Gimli’s stare head on. ‘Yes. I would make it for you tonight, if it pleases you. Would you learn it?’

Gimli glances back at Gandalf and the lady, here to release Tauriel from Saruman’s curse. Tomorrow, Legolas will be reunited with her, his friendship with Gimli fading into the background. Gimli’s promise not to think of their parting shatters now that the time is nearly upon them. He cannot sit here and learn a song Legolas has written for him and them merrily wave him off the next day. His heart could not take that. 

And worse, what if in the light of day, with Tauriel beside him once more, Legolas feels embarrassed or ashamed to have done such a thing? 

‘Not tonight, laddie.’ Gimli keeps his focus on the lady, not willing to show Legolas the misery that must surely be on his face. ‘Maybe tomorrow. Let us see how it goes.’

Beside him, Legolas is utterly still for a moment, before he nods jerkily. ‘I understand. Excuse me, I will go to Tauriel now.’ He stands and leaves before Gimli can say a word, and Gimli heaves a sigh. Already Legolas looks more to Tauriel than to their friendship.

Still, it is what Gimli expected. 

It is how it should be.

 

*

 

The next morning, Gandalf and Lady Galadriel spends several hours seated beside Tauriel’s bedroll, Gandalf with his face hidden between his cloak and hat and only the long stem of his pipe visible. The lady has her eyes closed, a faint frown on her fair face as she sways in place, mostly silent, occasionally chanting strange words. Legolas and the dwarves sit together not too far away, mostly reflexively sharpening weapons, though Lusud is knitting. 

Eventually Gandalf’s head rises and he takes his pipe out of his mouth. Lady Galadriel sighs, opening her eyes and stretching. ‘It is done,’ she says in her sweet, musical voice. ‘All it needs now is a loving kiss and the curse will be broken.’

Gimli finds he can’t look anywhere but at his axe and whetstone in his hands. He elbows Legolas, sitting beside him. ‘Go on then lad, I reckon that’s for you to do.’

He can almost feel Legolas’s gaze on him as a physical weight for a long moment before Legolas stands and moves over to where Tauriel lies. He kneels beside her, and now Gimli can’t look away from him as he bends and places a light kiss on Tauriel's lips. 

It feels like the whole camp holds their breath as they wait for some sign it has worked. It does not take long. Perhaps twenty seconds elapse before Tauriel’s eyelids begin to flutter and finally open fully. Across from him Gimli hears Kíli sigh and knows exactly how he feels. Relief and loss mingle in his chest, and he looks back at his whetstone once more. 

‘They did it!’ Gêdul cries, and Lusud and Lutur echo his cheer, even Fíli and Akhzur thumping the ground in celebration. Neither Gimli nor Kíli can bring themselves to join their friend’s wholehearted cheer but they both manage to smile convincingly. Gimli can see Galadriel looking at them both, a hint of what he thinks is compassion in her gaze, but he ignores it.

‘I hope then that we will be the first dwarves for many a long year to be invited to an elven wedding,’ Lusud teases Legolas as he helps Tauriel sit up, and Gimli wonders if he and Kíli can conveniently fall ill at the same time and miss the ceremony. 

Tauriel looks confused, as someone waking from a deep sleep to be greeted with words that make no sense. ‘Legolas? What are you doing here? Who is getting married? How long have I been unconscious?’

‘You and Prince Greenwood here.’ Now Lusud looks confused. ‘Are the two of you not betrothed?’  
‘ _Betrothed?_ Legolas, what have you been telling them?’ She looks around, searching the group until she finds Kíli, and Gimli wants to kick his cousin, tell him not to look so forlorn as he gazes at her. 

‘I have said nothing to them!’ Legolas is both worried and indignant. He turns to the dwarves. ‘Do you all believe us betrothed?’

They all nod. 

‘But why?’ He sounds puzzled, and Gimli feels something that might be a stir of hope in his chest.

‘Do you not wear each other’s beads?’ Lutur asks.

‘Yes,’ Legolas nods, still looking puzzled. 

‘And your loving kiss woke her. Surely, if you are not already betrothed you will be soon.’ Lutur sounds matter-of-fact.

‘Of course I love her, she is a sister to me in all but blood! Nothing was said about the kiss needing to be romantic!’ Legolas sounds confused and alarmed. Gimli glances at Tauriel, seeing the same look on her face. 

‘There are _no_ romantic feelings between us,’ she confirms, sounding very emphatic. ‘We are friends. And what have beads to do with it?’

It is Gandalf who speaks next. ‘A dwarf would never wear any beads not their own, unless they are married or promised to be.’ Akhzur looks unhappy that Gandalf is talking of dwarven culture before non-dwarves but Gimli ignores him, looking instead to Legolas, who looks as though he finally understands something.

‘You all believed us promised because we exchanged clasps?’ He does not wait for their assent before he turns and meets Gimli’s eyes. Legolas’s next words seem spoken only to Gimli. ‘As an elf, I would give and receive beads and clasps freely as gifts. Were I to ask someone to court I would make them a song and ask them to learn it with me.’ 

For a long minute, Gimli stares at him, hardly daring to believe what he is hearing. Does this mean...?

Before he can put his thoughts into words, he hears Kíli gasp. ‘But… does this mean… Tauriel, when you told me you...’ He doesn’t seem to be able to finish a thought.

Gimli manages to tear his eyes away from Legolas, looking instead to his cousin and seeing the same hope on his face that Gimli feels in his heart. He glances at Tauriel, hoping to see his cousin’s feelings reflected there. 

Tauriel is scowling.

For a heart-stopping second Gimli thinks Tauriel is going to deny Kíli, tell him he is mistaken. Then she speaks. 

‘Does this mean, when you said you would learn to sing it with me, that you did not wish to court?’ And Gimli recognises the hurt in her voice underneath the protective layer of irritation. 

 

*

 

Kíli almost falls over himself in his haste to reassure Tauriel. ‘No!’ Then, realising how that sounds, he hastens to add; ‘I did not realise, but yes! I do want to court you. Or you to court me, I do not care.’ He really, really doesn’t care. He feels like he could float to her side so light is his heart, but instead he walks, well, runs nearly. Legolas backs away, moving to Gimli, but Kíli can’t spare his cousin a thought right now. Tauriel’s hand is lying on the blanket and he picks it up, bringing it to his lips. ‘Either way will suit me, as long as it is not a lengthy process.’

Tauriel smiles at him, and Kíli is helpless to do anything but smile back. ‘For elves a short courting period is thirty years or so. Will that suit?’ She must see his dismay for she laughs, tipping her head back so her hair flows to the blanket. ‘Oh Kíli,’ she gasps eventually. ‘I would not make either of us wait that long. Yes, a short courting period, and then we will wed.’ And as she says this she takes her hand from his and, raising it to her hair, draws out the clasp she wears, letting it fall forgotten onto the ground. ‘Will you make me new clasps, my dwarf?’

Kíli can’t answer through the lump in his throat, but he nods hard enough that she understands, and smiles, pulling him forward by his own soon-to-be clasped hair. 

Their lips touch once, twice, clinging gently, and the rest of the world fades from view as they sink into a kiss. 

 

*

 

Gimli feels Legolas sink down beside him but he doesn’t turn, watching his cousin and his cousin’s One, smiling so besottedly at each other. He only looks away when they begin to kiss, allowing them as much privacy as he can given the location and company. 

He feels Legolas’s hesitant touch on his leg. ‘Gimli?’ The elf’s voice is uncertain. ‘Is this a problem, knowing I asked you to court?’

Gimli doesn’t look at him, glaring first at the ground then at Lusud and Lutur who are cat-calling Kíli and Tauriel. He stands quickly.

‘Come,’ he says, jerking his head towards the outcropping of rock where he and Legolas sat on the day of the storm. Legolas follows him, stepping as lightly as ever, but as usual Gimli is aware of his every move.

When they reach the rock Gimli stops and looks out, scanning the horizon reflexively before he remembers he doesn’t have to any more. He keeps looking out, unable to face Legolas. 

Before he can speak, Legolas begins. ‘Gimli, I know that you are not interested in courting, but please, may we forget that and continue as friends? I will not trouble you again with my feelings, I promise, and if we can still -’ Gimli’s held out hand stops his pleading babble, and he shifts awkwardly as Gimli searches for words.

‘Legolas, last night, when you asked me to learn a song with you, I thought you betrothed to Tauriel, and I could not sing with you one night and then lose you in the morning. I could not do that to my heart.’

A relieved smile breaks over Legolas’s face. ‘The we can still be friends? We can still -’ he stops and frowns. ‘What do you mean, you could not do that to your heart? I thought you did not wish to court?’

Now it is Gimli’s turn to frown. ‘When did I say I did not want to court? On the contrary, I would very much like to court.’ 

Legolas’s eyes flash at him, and Gimli feels a thrill of foreboding. What has he said to anger Legolas? 

‘Oh really?’ Legolas does not sound at all pleased at Gimli’s words, as Gimli rather hoped he would be. ‘You would like to court me, or you would like to court someone else?’

‘I would like to court you.’ Bewilderment colours Gimli’s voice. Where has this sudden hostility come from?

‘Really.’ Legolas could not sound more disbelieving if he tried. ‘You say you would like to court me and yet you spent all of last night staring at Lady Galadriel!’

Gimli is very glad he drew Legolas away from the camp. He does not want to imagine having this conversation in front of his friends. It is difficult enough to have it with Legolas, especially when faced with his disbelief.

‘I was staring at her, but not in that way! I would not want to court her. She is beautiful, but beautiful like a mountain lake, deep and distant and untouchable.’ Legolas does not seem appeased by Gimli’s words and Gimli wishes he was better at this, more articulate. 

‘And if she was less distant, more touchable? Would you then want to court her?’ Legolas still sounds angry, but now Gimli can hear the hurt hiding beneath and understands where Legolas’s ire is coming from.

For the first time since this conversation began Gimli dares to reach out and touch Legolas, putting a hand on his arm. Gimli half expects him to jerk away but he allows the contact, filling Gimli with hope.

He makes his voice gentle. ‘Even if she came to me now and asked if I would learn a song with her, I would refuse. Dwarves love only once, and I gave you my heart while I still thought you betrothed to Tauriel. You are home and friendship to me, a bright flame that lights my day. When I believed you were to return to the Greenwood and marry Tauriel I thought my heart would break. You are my One, and I will love no other but you.’

From the expression on Legolas’s face, Gimli can see his words have got through. ‘Elves too love only once, and when you ignored me to stare at the Lady all night, I had to ask you to sing, even if you said no. I could not bear the thought of leaving without knowing whether I could ever have your heart.’

Gimli finally feels as though he can smile, burden lifted, and from the matching smile on Legolas’s face he is pretty certain Legolas feels the same. Gimli reaches out and does as he has wanted to do from almost the day he met Legolas, running a hand through the elf’s pale hair, sifting the strands though his fingers. ‘I will make you a fine set of clasps to wear, gold and topaz, so all will know you are courted.’ 

Legolas matches his gesture, tangling his fingers in Gimli’s beard. ‘And will you too wear clasps? I am not skilled at metal work, but I would not have people believing you unpromised.’

Gimli feels his heart turn over at the sign that Legolas wants to place his claim. ‘I will, and if you are not a metal worker, will you help with the design?’

‘Gladly.’ 

‘And I will gladly learn the song you make, though I don’t think I would be any good at writing one in return.’ Gimli has tried songwriting before and is thankful that he burnt his attempts before showing anyone.

Legolas smiles. ‘You might not write one but not all elves are good at singing either. Could you make one on your drum?’ He looks hopeful, and this is something Gimli can do.

‘Aye, that I will.’ He smiles at Legolas, and sees his heart reflected in Legolas’s eyes.

 

*

 

The sound of voices from the camp intrudes for a moment, and Legolas reluctantly remembers that there are others here too. He does not want to return to reality yet, wants to stay longer in this moment where everything is perfect between he and Gimli, but sadly that cannot be. He sighs. ‘We must return to the others. There are plans to be made; Saruman is still a threat, and I cannot let my father continue as he does.’ 

Gimli nods. ‘That is true. There are also conversations to be had, about the future, family, many things. But for the moment let us go back to our friends and council with them of our next move.’

Legolas releases Gimli’s beard reluctantly. ‘Tauriel and I must go back to the Greenwood with the Lady and Mithrandir. But I will return -’ He breaks off when Gimli laughs.

‘If you think I’m going to let you wander off to face orcs alone when we have only just begun to court, you are more daft than I thought. I will be coming with you, and I have little doubt that Kíli will too.’

Legolas knows he should protest, that things will be made more difficult with his father if he brings dwarves with him, but he cannot make himself ask Gimli to stay behind. His support and distraction will be a help, and if nothing else Legolas looks forward to the chance to fight alongside his love. 

His love. One day soon his betrothed. He smiles.

Gimli smiles too. ‘What’s got you grinning now?’

‘I am happy,’ Legolas. ‘I have your heart, you have mine, what is not to smile at?’

Gimli nods thoughtfully. ‘Aye, that is true, but there is one thing we have neglected to do yet.’ He beckons Legolas closer.

Legolas leans forward, heart beating harder, anticipation building, still smiling foolishly as Gimli, smiling too, pulls him down into their first kiss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And they defeated Saruman, drove the orcs from Mirkwood, and then Gandalf took Bilbo to Mount Doom where they destroyed the ring, and they all lived happily ever after.
> 
>  
> 
> Ada – dad  
> mellon-nín – my friend
> 
>  
> 
> khufshkarâl – bat meat sausage, specific to the Grey Mountains  
> Khuzdul – dwarven language
> 
>  
> 
> Khuzdul from The Dwarrow Scholar, Sindarin from Parf Edhellen

**Author's Note:**

> Lembas – elvish travelling rations  
> Nethel – sister  
> Hanar – brother  
> Noldor of Imladris – the elves of Rivendell 
> 
>  
> 
> Khazâd ai-mênu – dwarven battle cry: the dwarves are upon you!  
> Ibsêtmajd – Khuzdul word for the herb Athelas  
> Iglishmêk – dwarven hand signs, like sign language.


End file.
